N84. 
1874 


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THE  LIBRARY 

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THE  UNIVERSITY 

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LOS  ANGELES 


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'^-^by^ 


</^  ^f    ^  ^ 


NOTHINa    NEW. 


@^ak0. 


BY   THE   AUTHOR   OF 

"JOHN  HALIFAX,  GENTLEMAN,"  "AVILLION,"  "AGATHA'S  HUSBAND/ 

"THE  HEAD  OF  THE  FAMH^Y,"  "OLIVE," 

*'THE  OGILVIES,"  &c.,  &c. 

» 


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LOED 


?R 

ERLISTOUN 


fe^;S3rt . 


A  LOVE    STORY. 


CHAPTER  I. 

"Jean,"  I  said,  "Lord  Erlistoun  is  com- 
ing." 

"Is  he?"  said  cousin  Jean — not  our  cousin, 
I  should  add,  but  we  called  her  so  for  conven- 
ience, to  save  telling  the  not-easy-to-be-told  facts 
concerning  her  and  her  poor  father. 

"  Jane,  my  dear,  is  tliat  jiiano  viell  in  tune  ? 
Do  see  about  it.  And  vrc  must  have  the  velvet 
furniture  uncovered  to-day ;  Lord  Erlistoun's 
coming." 

"Oh,  yes,  I'll  remember,  Mrs.  Browne." 

"Jean — oh,  cousin  Jean — Russell  and  I  shall 
miss  the  rook-shooting.  It  is  to  be  put  oft'  till 
Monday  ;  Lord  Erlistoun's  coming." 

This  last  of  the  various  interruptions  made 
Jean  stop  her  practice.  She  was  fond  of  the 
two  lads,  and  they  of  her. 

"  Never  mind,  Algernon.  The  young  rooks 
will  have  f<jur  more  meriy  May  days  ;  and  after 
all,  I  think  I  would  rather  see  a  worse  fellow 
than  you  shooting  them." 

"  A  worse  fellow  ?     Eh  ?     Lord  Erlistoun  ?" 

"Well,  he  may  be  ;   I  don't  know  him." 

"Jane — my  dear  Jane  !"  She  never  would 
remember  to  say  "Jean." 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Browne."  But  mischief  was 
too  strong  in  the  lass  ;  her  merry  eye  caught 
mine  ;  she  repeated  solemnly  out  of  last  week's 
"Punch,"  which  lay  on  the  drawing-room  ta- 
ble, 

"  To  II'Apsley  'oiise  next  day, 
Drives  lip  a  broosh  and  four, 
A  gracious  Prince  sits  in  that  shay; 
(I  mention  him  witli  Iwr  !)," 

Of  course,  I  knew  as  well  as  Jean  that  one 
of  my  good  mother's  few  faults  was  a  propensity 
to  "mention  with  hor"  any  member  of  our 
British  aristocracy.  She  had  it,  I  have  heard, 
from  the  time  when  honest  Thomas  Brown  be- 
came clerk  to  Browne  and  Co.,  merchants,  with 
many  a  true  word  spoken  in  jest  about  tiic  pos- 
sibility of  chan.;ing  the  final  e,  which  was  the 
only  thing  in  either  his  name  or  character  that, 
in  his  pngress  upward,  my  father  ever  consent- 
ed to  alter.  She  was  then  Susan  Steel,  a  young 
milliner  and  dressmaker  ;  very  pretty.  As  Mrs. 
Browne,  of  Lythwaite  Hall,  mother  of  many 
children — none  now  living  but  the  three  boys 
and  myself — she  was  often  pretty  still ;  and  she 
took  a  pleasure — very  excusable,  considering  all 


the  years  she  had  kept  herself  neat  and  spruce 
in  cotton  and  linsey-woolseys — in  making  the 
best  of  her  good  looks  with  handsome  gowns. 

She  made  the  best,  too,  of  every  thing  about 
her — house  and  carriages,  servants  and  plate — 
even  to  "my  sons  at  Cambridge,"  though  I 
often  thought  they  all  bothered  her  at  times,  es- 
pecially the  latter.  Poor  dear  !  the  only  thing 
she  never  could  make  the  best  of  was  me. 

I  was  new  to  the  splendors  of  Lythwaite 
Hall.  It  was  only  lately  that  my  father  had 
bouglit  it,  and  settled  down  among  the  landed 
gentry  ;  only  lately — probably  through  his  act- 
ive labors  in  the  Great  Exhibition,  which  that 
year  mingled  together  all  classes — that  I  had 
heard  of  his  having  Lords  on  his  visiting  ac- 
quaintance. I  was  not  too  pleased,  moreover, 
that  any  visitors  should  break  in  upon  this,  one 
of  my  rare  visits  home,  for  I  take  a  good  while 
to  become  accustomed  to  new  people ;  I  did, 
even  to  cousin  Jean.  Jean  and  I  were  good 
friends  now ;  yes,  the  best  of  friends. 

We  had  taken  a  long  walk  that  very  morning 
— in  the  garden  to  the  lily-of-the-valley  bed, 
then  across  the  park  by  the  trout  stream,  and 
home  by  the  rookeries,  under  the  three  horse- 
chestnuts  ;  for  Jean  said,  laughing,  that  when 
her  "  ship  came  home,"  and  she  owned  a  park, 
she  would  have  it  full  of  horse-chestnut  trees. 
I  remember  the  saying,  since  it  quite  convinced 
me  that  she  and  I  had  been,  both  in  our  speech 
and  our  silence,  carrying  on  trains  of  thought, 
and  plans  for  the  future,  as  wide  apart  as  the 
Poles. 

Our  "  ships"  rarely  do  come  home,  or  are 
meant  to  come  home,  are  they,  cousin  Jean  ? 

I  am  but  a  plain  man,  I  know.  There  is  no 
poetry  in  me  ;  if  there  ever  was,  the  Liverpool 
docks  and  Liverpool  'Change  beat  it  all  out  of 
me  nearly  twenty  years  ago.  Whether  it  ever 
might  revive  depended  upon  certain  things, 
which  I  had  tried  that  morning  to  find  out, 
without  troubling  any  body,  or  making  any  talk 
in  the  family.  I  did  find  them  out ;  or  rather, 
I  found  out — in  safe  time — that  there  was  no- 
tliing  to  find.  So  ended  the  whole  matter,  and  I 
was  once  again  Mark  Browne,  eldest  son  of  hon- 
est Tom  Browne,  tlic  merchant's  clerk  ;  belong- 
ing to  a  prior  order  of  existence  from  Charles, 
Russell,  and  Algernon  Browne,  my  brothers, 
born  after  a  long  intcr\'al,  in  days  of  prosperity. 
Nice,  handsome  lads  they  were ;    well-grown, 


Qf^f^r^fin 


6 


LORD  ERLISTOUN. 


well-cUiicated,  accustomed  to  case  and  luxury. 
No  wonder  they  got  on  so  merrily  with  cousin 
Jean,  and  that  Jean  should  have  such  a  liking 
for  the  boys. 

She  was  fond  of  my  mother,  too,  and  humor- 
ed her  peculiarities  capitally ;  followed  her  this 
morning  from  chair  to  chair,  taking  the  covers 
off  with  a  most  domestic  and  inexhaustible  pa- 
tience, worthy  of  a  "poor  relation,"  and  then 
with  a  lively  spirit,  very  unlike  any  poor  rela- 
tion, bursting  into  a  song  or  two  for  her  own 
entertainment. 

"Just  sto])  one  minute,  my  dear  ; — don't  you 
think  Lord  Erlistoun,"  etc.,  etc. 

And  having  stopped  and  settled  tlie  import- 
ant question,  Jean  was  off  again  with  her  ditty  : 

"  '  O  no,  O  no,  says  Earlistoun, 

For  that's  a  thinp  that  niaunna  be  ; 
For  I  am  sworn  to  Bothwell  Hill, 
\Miere  I  maun  cither  gae  or  dec." 

"Mark,  who  is  Lord  Erlistoun?" 

"Just  Lord  Erlistoun;  I  know  no  more. 
What  were  you  singing  about  liim  ?" 

"Oh,  that  Earliijtoun  was  quite  another  per- 
son— an  old  ballad-hero  of  mine.  Nobody  you 
know — notliing  you  would  care  about." 

Sometimes  Jean  was  mistaken.  She  knew 
much  that  I  did  not  know,  but  that  was  no 
reason  why  I  should  not  care  about  it.  True, 
my  learning  and  my  literature  had  been  chiclly 
in  ledger  and  cash-book,  like  my  father's  before 
me  ;  and,  until  lately,  in  the  incessant  whirl  of 
money-making,  I  liad  had  little  leisure  for  any 
other  interests.      Still,  Jean  Avas  mistaken. 

But  I  did  not  contradict  her.  I  let  her  sing 
out  her  song,  and  watched  her  sitting  at  tlic 
piano  171  tlie  green-shaded  drawing-room,  with 
one  slender  sunl)eam  sliding  across  the  Vene- 
tian lilind,  and  dancing  to  the  music  on  the  top 
of  her  head.     Ah,  bonny  cousin  Jean  ? 

To  return  to  Lord  Erlistoun. 

It  had  since  struck  me  as  one  of  those  coin- 
cidences we  afterward  trace  with  some  curiosity, 
that  Lord  Erlistoun  should  have  first  a])peared 
at  our  house  on  this  day.  He  was  not  expected 
till  the  morrow  ;  and  I  had  gone  to  my  room. 
When  my  mother  tried  to  open  my  door  it  was 
bolted,  for  a  wonder. 

"Mark,  do  go  down  ;  your  father's  out,  the 
boys  gone  a  walk  with  Jane,  and  I'm  this  fig- 
ure. Oh,  dear  me,  what  shall  I  do,  for  Lord 
Erlistoun's  come." 

Yes,  there  I  could  see  him  from  my  window, 
lazily  walking  up  and  down  in  front  of  the  por- 
tico— a  tall,  slight  young  man,  in  a  giay  shoot- 
ing-dress and  a  Glengarry  bonnet.  Nothing 
very  alarming  about  him,  as  I  liinted  to  my 
mother. 

"  Nonsense,  Mark — for  shame  !  Only  do  go 
down  stairs." 

Usually  I  dislike  .strangers,  and  especially 
"fine"  strangers,  but  this  morning  all  things 
apfteared  the  same  to  me  and  all  people  alike. 
The  only  thing  worth  doing  seemed  the  simple 
necessity  of  small  everyday  duties,  as  they  lay 
to  my  hand. 


"  Mother,  don't  vex  yourself —  indeed  Til 
go.  How  long  am  I  to  keep  him  out  of  the 
way " 


V" 


"  Until  dinner-time  if  you  can.  Mercy  me  ! 
and  there's  no  game  to-day  for  dinner!" 

I  thought,  what  mere  trities  do  women,  even 
the  best  of  women,  sometimes  seize  on  to  worry 
their  lives  out !     But  I  went  down. 

"Lord  Erlistoun,  I  believe?" 

"  Mr.  Browne — I  beg  pardon,  Mr.  — " 

"I  am  Mark  Browne.  I  am  sorry  my  fiither 
is  not  at  home  to  welcome  you." 

"All  my  own  fault,  indeed — I  mistook  the 
day  fixed  for  my  visit.      Still,  may  I  intrude?" 

His  manner  presupposed  an  answer — the 
only  one  jiossible.  Probably  his  society  was  not 
usually  considered  an  intrusion.  I  bade  him 
welcome,  and  we  shook  hands,  with  a  mutual 
covert  inspection  and  dim  recognition  of  having 
met  somewhere,  but  no  allusion  was  made  to 
that  prior  acquaintance  by  either. 

I  remembered  him  distinctly.  We  hard-work- 
ing classes  seldom  see  even  among  our  women, 
seldomer  still  among  our  men,  that  noble,  yet 
delicate  outline  of  face  which  is  commonly  called 
"aristocratic  ;"  not  unjustly  cither,  for  it  is  the 
best  type  of  mere  jdiysical  beauty.  We  rarely 
boast — we  poor  fellows,  stunted  in  early  growth 
by  toiling  in  close  offices  and  living  in  town 
homes — siuh  lithe,  tall  figures,  combining  the 
strength  of  manhood  and  the  grace  of  woman- 
hood, even  down  to  the  long  hands  and  almond- 
shaj)ed  nails — I  remember  noticing  them.  No; 
each  rank  has  its  own  advantages — physical  de- 
velopment rarely  belongs  to  ours.  It  depends 
on  chances  frequently  out  of  our  power,  or  prior 
generations  who  Iccpieath  us  their  personal  tyjie 
to  start  with  ;  aftcrwaid,  on  learing,  education, 
and  modes  of  life. 

I  saw  at  a  glance  what  any  sensible  man  must 
see,  nor  need  be  ashamed  or  afraid  to  see,  that 
for  certain  qualities  you  might  as  well  institute 
a  comparison  between  a  working  cob  and  a  race- 
horse as  between  Lord  Erlistoun  and  Mark 
Browne.  l*erhaj)s  the  instinctive  train  of 
thought  which  led  to  that  comparison,  or  rather 
distinction,  indicated  too  much  self-conscious- 
ness. But  there  arc  jjosilions  when  a  man  will 
and  does  think  of  himself,  r.nd  comjiarc  himself 
voluntarily  or  involuntarily  witii  oilier  men; 
such  an  one  was  mine  this  day. 

"This  is  a  verypretty  place,''  said  Lord  Erlis- 
toun. 

He  was  correct ;  many  a  nobleman's  I  Jiavc,^ 
seen  not  half  so  fine.  My  father  took  great  de- 
light tiicrein  ;  and  it  was  not  without  a  certain 
satisfaction  that  I  did  the  honors  of  it  to  our 
guest,  through  gardens,  conservatories,  ])leas- 
uie-grounds.  There  was  a  jilcasant  jjridc  in 
showing  to  Lord  Erlistoun  that  we  also — we 
money-makers — could  love  nature  and  art,  and 
expend  wisely  and  lil)eral]y  what  we  did  not 
inherit  but  earned.  And  in  going  over  the 
place,  I  was  myself  forcibly  struck  with  the 
whole  thing — with  my  fathers  princely  style  of 
expenditure,  and  with  the  contrast  it  formed  to 


LORD  ERLISTOUN. 


the  little  dark  merchant's  office  in  Liverpool 
which  originated  and  maintained  it  all. 

Sometimes  I  thought — but  a  son  has  no  busi- 
ness to  comment  on  a  father — on  so  excellent 
a  father. 

Our  walk  came  to  an  end,  likewise  our  con- 
versation. We  talked  over  the  state  of  Europe, 
the  Great  Exhibition,  etc. — topics  which  were 
possible  meeting  points — until  they  successive- 
ly fell  dead.  I  am  not  a  conversationalist  my- 
self, but  I  like  to  hear  others  ;  and  am  obliged 
to  own  that  I  found  Lord  Erlistoun's  company 
rather  uninteresting. 

I  left  him  safe  in  his  apartments ;  whence, 
to  every  body's  relief,  he  did  not  emerge  till 
dinner-time. 

He  must  have  found  it  a  dull  meal ;  my 
father  still  absent — my  mother,  brother,  and 
cousin  being  all  I  could  introduce  him  to.  I 
remember  the  boys,  strong  in  Cambridge  ease 
and  "knowledge  of  the  world,"  coming  readily 
forward,  till  quenched  by  the  grave  politeness 
which  it  was  impossible  to  make  free  with ;  and 
my  mother,  whose  hearty  apologies  for  "pot- 
luck,"  were  met  by  a  smile  which  expressed  by 
its  very  resen-e  the  most  amiable  ignorance  of 
what  "pot-luck"  might  be. 

My  dear  good  mother — hot-cheeked  and  hur- 
ried— a  little  too  warm  and  too  fat  for  her  li,j,lit- 
colored  silk  dress,  and  her  white  gloves,  that 
would  not  come  on  properly — with  her  uneasy 
attempt  at  ease,  and  her  incessant  stream  of 
talk,  in  which  the  "li's" — that  unlucky  letter 
which  we  had  never  yet  succeeded  in  safely  im- 
pressing on  either  her  or  my  father — appeared 
and  disappeared  at  pleasure — I  wondered  what 
Lord  Erlistoun  thought  of  his  hostess. 

Possibly  nothing  ;  for  no  outward  indication 
testified  that  he  ever  had  any  thoughts  at  all. 
I  have  seen  close-tempered  men — iron-visaged 
fellows,  whose  faces  were  as  hard  as  a  locked 
chest — but  then  you  guessed  from  that  very  fact 
that  there  was  something  inside  ;  proud,  sensi- 
tive men,  who  tried  to  wear  a  countenance  like 
a  mask,  yet  through  which  now  and  then,  by 
some  accidental  flash  of  the  e,\e,  you  fe!t  sure 
it  was  a  mask,  with  the  natural  flesh  and  blood 
behind  it.  But  I  never  in  my  life  saw  such  a 
smooth,  courteous,  handsome  negation  as  Lord 
Eilistoun's  physiognomy  seemed,  this  first  day 
of  acquaintance. 

"What  do  you  think  of  him,  Jean,"  I  said, 
when,  my  father  having  returned  late,  I  was 
free — free  to  settle  myself  in  the  usual  corner, 
and  watch  Jean  geing  about  her  usual  evening's 
ways,  which  she  did  not  alter,  nor  seem  to  in- 
tend altering,  for  our  grand  gnest.  She  had 
merely  bowed  when  I  introduced  him  to  "my 
cousin."  She  was  not  usually  much  noticed, 
and  something  in  her  manner  rather  evaded 
than  attracted  notice,  when  we  had  company. 
And  yet  it  often  seemed,  to  me  at  least,  as  if 
she,  of  the  whole  fomily,  looked  most  at  ease, 
most  natural,  in  the  beautiful  rooms  of  Lyth- 
waite  Hall. 

"What  do  you  think  of  him?"  I  repeated, 


as  she  stood  by  the  tea-table ;  ending  a  long 
discussion  by  persuading  my  mother  it  would 
be  much  better  to  let  her  make  the  tea,  as  she 
always  used  to  make  it,  country  fashion,  in  spite 
of  Lord  Erlistoun. 

"What  do  I  think  of  him ! — wait  a  minute — 
(John,  leave  the  lamp  there).  Yes,  I  think  him 
very  handsome,  and  remarkably  well  dressed." 

"You  are  jesting?" 

"Not  at  all— the  latter  quality  is  no  slight 
one.  Any  man  can  dress  like  a  dandy;  but 
it  takes  a  man  of  some  taste  to  dress  like  a  gen- 
tleman." 

"  And  his  manners  ?" 

"I  have  seen  worse  and  better." 

"My  dear  Jane,  how  can  you  judge?  So 
elegant,  so  polite  !  accustomed,  as  one  might  at 
once  perceive,  to  the  very  highest  society." 

"  But,  mother,  Jean  has  been  accustomed 
to  good  society,  too." 

' '  I  was  accustomed  for  six-and-twenty  years 
to  my  father's."  She  said  this  with  pride,  yet 
no  unholy  pride.  I  saw  the  tremble  on  her  lip, 
and  hastened  to  talk  of  other  things. 

Once  in  my  life  I  had  seen  Jean's  father. 
He  was  not  a  man  ever  to  be  forgotten,  even 
by  a  young  lad.  Why  he  married  into  the 
Brown  family,  or  whetlier  the  Emma  Brown 
he  chose  had  qualities  in  herself  enough  to 
make  her  his  fit  wife,  and  Jean's  mother,  I 
never  could  learn.  She  died  early.  We  never 
heard  of  either  father  or  daughter,  save  that 
occasionally  we  saw  his  name  in  newspapers 
and  magaziires,  and  my  father  would  say, 
"  That's  surely  poor  Emma's  clever  husband," 
till  we  heard  of  him  one  day  in  a  newspaper 
obituary.  Authors  usually  die  in  poverty;  but 
he  left  Jean  enough  to  bring  in  fifty  pounds  a 
year.  So,  just  for  a  visit,  my  father  fetciied  her 
to  Lythwaite,  and  then  somehow  we  couldn't  part 
with  her.    This  was  all  her  history  that  1  knew  of. 

Of  herself — she  was  a  tall,  dark-haired  girl. 
Pei)]de  did  not  generally  adinire  her;  at  least 
our  sort  of  ];eo]jle  ;  bright  coin].lexions,  plump 
fi__ures,  well  set-off  by  gay  dresses,  were  their 
notion  of  beauty.  If  the  I'artlienon  Athene 
(I  have  a  head  of  her  in  my  oflice-parlor  over 
the  bookcase,  which  1  bought  at  an  old  curios- 
ity shop,  for  some  turn  of  tiie  brow  and  hair 
which  reminded  me  of  J  an) — if  Athene  her- 
self were  to  ajipear  at  one  of  their  parties  in  a 
high  black  si.k  gown,  a  little  white  frill  round 
her  throat,  and  not  a  ribbon  or  jewel  on  neck, 
arm,  or  finger,  they  would  doubtless  have  called 
the  goddess  a  "  rather  plain  young  woman,"  as 
I  have  often  heard  Jean  called. 

A  "young  woman"  she  decidedly  was — not 
a  jiiil.  She  had  seen  a  good  deal  of  the  world, 
in  London  and  elsewhere ;  her  character  and 
manner  were  alike  formed  ;  that  is,  if  she  could 
be  said  to  have  a  "manner,"  when,  under  all 
circumstances,  she  was  so  simply  and  entirely 
natural ;  not  always  the  same — few  people  are, 
e.\ce])t  the  very  resen-ed,  the  sophisticated,  or 
the  dull ;  but  in  all  her  various  moods  she  was 
— as  alone  she  cured  to  be — hersulf. 


LORD  ERLISTOUN. 


There  was  no  pretense  about  her — no  ten- 
dency to  petty  or  polite  humilities.  I  think  she 
knew  she  was  not  plain  ;  and  was  rather  amused 
by  the  ill-educated  taste  of  those  who  considered 
her  so.  I  tliink,  too,  that  in  a  harmless,  wo- 
manly way,  she  took  pleasure  in  her  own  chissic 
features,  large  and  noble,  her  father's  features, 
and  in  her  father's  beautiful  hereditary  hands. 
For  his  sake,  partly  ;  slie  was  tiie  sort  of  womnn 
to  have  something  true  and  goud  at  the  root  of 
her  very  vanities. 

I  describe  her  as  she  was  to  us  who  knew 
her — not  to  strangers.  She  rarely  "  came  out" 
to  strangers ;  or,  cxcejit  when  she  was  really 
interested  in  them,  made  any  show  of  ap);ear- 
ing  so.  Nor,  in  the  extremely  quiet  mood  she 
was  in  to-night,  was  I  surjiriscd  that  Lord  Erlis- 
toun  merely  noticed  her  face  (he,  accustomed  to 
art,  must  have  seen  it  was  handsome),  as  if  it 
were  picture  or  statue,  and  quitted  it.  She 
bore  the  look,  or  was  unconscious  of  it,  witii 
those  "level-fronting  eyelids"  of  hers,  full  of 
Other  thoughts — sometimes  thoughts  evidently 
far  away.  She  had  had  a  hard  life,  you  saw 
that ;  she  had  gone  through  a  great  grief,  you 
saw  tliat  too,  at  least  sonic  might ;  but  so  mucli 
discernment  was  jirobahly  not  to  be  expected 
from  a  young  man  like  Lord  Erlistoun. 

"  How  old  do  you  think  he  is,  Jane  ?" 

"Who?  Lord  Erlistoun  ?  Really  one  can 
hardly  jud^e  so  speedily.  But  '  liuike'  will  in- 
form us,  Mrs.  Browne." 

"  I  told  you,  my  dear,  that  was  by  no  means 
a  useless  purcliase, "  said  my  mother,  turning 
over  with  no  displeasure  our  till  I.itely  unknown 
necessity ;  the  book  which  some  satirist  calls 
the  "British  Bible."  "Here  it  is— Nugent, 
Baron  Erlistoun.  Dear  me,  only  twenty-four, 
just  Charles's  age — younger  than  vou,  Jane." 

"Yes." 

Here  the  subject  of  discussion  unwittinj,ly 
ended  it  by  o]jeniiig  the  drawing-room  door, 
looking  rather  tired,  but  still  listening,  with  the 
blandest  courtesy,  to  every  word  ui  my  father's. 
Now,  my  father's  talk  was  always  woriii  listen- 
ing to ;  but  then,  like  most  old  men,  he  had 
a  trick  of  long-windedness,  and  it  is  trying  to 
have  the  wisest  sayings  and  the  best  of  stories 
half-a-dozen  times  over.  The  young  man 
turned,  pcrhaj)S,  a  little  too  quickly,  to  my 
motiier,  when  she  came  to  the  rescue  ;  and 
there  was  ju>t  the  slightest  shade  of  personal 
interest,  beyond  his  invariably  jiolitc  interest  in 
every  thing,  wiien  among  the  long  list  of  people 
whom  he  "had  not  thj  honor  of  knowing" — 
the  flilc  of  our  friends,  wliom  my  inolher  had 
anxiously  invited  to  a  dinner  party  for  his  en- 
tertainment to-morrow,  she  chanced  to  light 
on  some  wlnmi  he  did  know.  Lady  Erlistoun 
("  my  mother,"  he  explained)  "  was  acquaint- 
ed with  the  bishop  and  liis  lady,  very  nice 
people." 

"  ("harming  jieople  1"  (all,  wliy  so  ecstatic, 
good  mother  of  mine,  for  you  had  only  dined 
there  once,  I  know)  "and  that  sweet  little 
niece  of  theirs — she's  not  out  yet  thou,ii,  the 


heiress.  Lady  Emily  Gage.  You  know  her,  of 
course  ?" 

"  Lady  Erlistoun  does.  Allow  me,"  and 
here  Lord  Erlistoun  rose  in  a  languid  manner, 
to  bring  my  mother's  cup  to  the  tea-table.  It 
cost  him  some  trouble,  and  her  a  thousand  apol- 
ogies; but  Jean's  eyes  had  a  spice  of  mischief 
in  them  as  she  looked  on. 

"  Don't  stir,  Mark.  A  little  exercise  won't 
harm  him.  Let  him  do  at  Rome  as  the  Ro- 
mans do." 

He  stood  by,  while  she  filled  the  cup,  made 
some  slight  remark  or  acknowledgment,  and  re- 
tired. Then,  in  great  dearth  of  entertainment, 
and  witli  a  dead,  heavy  atmosphere  of  restraint 
creeping  over  the  room,  he  was  set  to  whist 
with  tlie  parents  and  Charlie  till  bedtime. 

Jean  and  I  contemplated  the  party  in  silence  ; 
my  mother's  round,  rosy,  c(mtciitcd  face — my 
father's,  rather  coarse  and  hard-featured,  but 
full  of  acuteness  and  power — and  between  them 
this  elegant  young  man,  whose  exquisite  refine- 
ment was  only  one  remove  from,  and  yet  just 
clear  of,  j  ositive  eft'eminacy. 

"I  wonder  what  on  earth  he  came  here  for," 
Jean  said,  meditatively.  "  He  must  have  h:;d 
some  very  strong  motive,  or  be  sadly  in  want 
of  novelty,  before  he — " 

No,  cousin,  you  need  not  have  hesitated ;  I 
traced  your  involuntary  thought;  I,  too,  was 
aware  of  what  our  house  was  and  its  ways ; 
also  how  they  and  we  must  necessarily  appear 
to  one  so  totally  diflerent  from  us  as  Lonl  Erlis- 
toun. It  is  folly  to  disguise  an  abstract  truth 
— I  never  do. 

"  I  sec  what  you  would  say,  Jean  ;  before  he 
came  among  such  inferior  folk  as  we  aie — he, 
accustomed  to  the  higli  breeding  of  fashionable 
life.  That  slow,  listless,  faultless  manner  of 
his,  which,  I  perceive,  is  fidget  ting  my  jioor 
mother  beyond  expression,  is,  I  suppose,  high 
breeding?     You  know." 

"No,  I  am  glad  to  say  I  do  not  know.  Mark, 
you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself"  (and  I 
was,  seeing  the  indignant  color  Hush  all  over 
her  dear  face) ;  "  I  do  not  know,  and  never  mean 
to  know.  What  have  I  to  do  with  fashionalile 
life  ?  I  know  how  good  you  are — all  of  you — I 
love  you." 

Ay,  Jean,  speak  up,  frank  and  warm.  Sure- 
ly you  loved  us,  every  one  and  all  alike. 

Alter  Lord  Erlistoun  had  been  li_ht('d  duly 
to  his  repose — and  the  greatest  nobleman  in  tlie 
land,  as  his  hostess  secretly  avowed,  need  not 
hav;!  desired  u  better  furnished  or  handsomer 
c  hamber— we  began  to  breathe.  Of  course  \vc 
'  talked  him  over"  as  families  will  among  them- 
s  -Iv^s — and  thank  Heaven,  with  all  our  increase 
of  fortune,  we  had  never  ceased  to  be  a  family. 
Jean,  stealing  slowly  into  the  j)lace  of  tlie  little 
daughters  that  had  died,  or  else  by  the  natural 
force  of  lier  cliaractcr  making  a  place  for  her- 
self, took  her  due  share  in  the  discussion.  She 
gave  full  merit  where  merit  was,  but  was  severe 
and  sarcastic  upon  various  small  peculiarities 
which  had  struck  tlie  family  with  unackiiowl- 


LORD  ERLISTOUN. 


edged  awe ;  namely,  that  under-toned,  soft 
drawl,  that  languid  avoidance  of  the  letter  R, 
and  that  nimini-j)imini  fish-mouthed  "Oh." 

"  I  should  like  to  compel  him  for  once  into 
a  good  honest  English  round  "O,"  of  either 
pleasure  or  pain.  Boy  as  he  is,  I  wonder  if  he 
is  still  capable  of  either,  or  of  the  expression  of 
them.     I  wish  he  may  be." 

"Not  altogether  a  kind  wish,  Jean." 

"Yes  it  is,"  she  said,  after  a  moment's 
thought.  "Any  pain  is  better  than  stagna- 
tion ;  any  expression  of  feeling  better  than  the 
elegant  hypocrisy  which  is  ashamed  of  its  ex- 
istence." 

And  then  she  turned  laughingly  to  put  her 
arm  round  my  mother's  neck,  and  tell,  apropos 
of  nothing,  how  twice  that  day  she  had  been 
addressed  in  the  village  as  "  Miss  Browne." 

But  no,  Jean,  you  could  never  have  been  my 
mother's  daughter.  I  saw  clearer  than  ever 
to-night,  the  something  in  your  mien,  manner, 
and  tone  of  thought,  distinct  from  all  of  us. 
Perhaps  you  knew  it  too,  much  as  you  loved  and 
respected  us — honest,  honorable  Brownes. 

k?o  thought  I,  and  my  thought  had  a  truth  in 
it ;  but  was  not  the  whole  truth.  "  Each  after 
his  kind,"  was  the  original  law  of  things  ;  and 
that  ''like  attracts  like"  is  no  less  an  absolute 
and  never-to-be-ignored  law.  Bat  sometimes 
we  decide  too  hastily,  and  witli  mere  surface 
judgment,  upon  what  it  is  that  constitutes  sim- 
ilarity. 


CHAPTER  II. 


Lord  Erlistoitn  spent  a  whole  week  at  Lyth- 
waite  Hall.  "  Why  he  di<l  so,  or  if  he  found 
any  pleasure  in  it,  we  really  could  not  tell. 
He  deported  himself  agreeably  to  all ;  Avent 
meekly  with  my  mother  to  various  solemn  din- 
ner-parties ;  took  his  due  share  in  our  own  com- 
pany-keeping in  his  honor ;  at  other  times  he 
shot  or  fished  with  Charles — Algernon  and  Rus- 
sel  having  vanished — nay,  even  walked  and 
talked  amiably  with  me.  With  Jean,  who  had 
little  leisure,  and  perhaps  less  inclination  to 
spend  it  in  doing  nothing,  his  intercourse  was 
chiefly  confined  to  "  Good-morning,  Miss  Jane" 
(having  discovered  that  her  name  was  not 
Browne,  but  being  too  courteous  or  too  idle  to 
find  out  what  it  was),  and  a  brief,  equally  civil 
and  indifferent,  "Good-morning,  Lord  Erlis- 
toun." 

He  did  not  seem  to  take  any  interest  in  one 
of  us  more  than  another — if  indeed  it  was  his 
habit  to  feel  interest  in  any  thing.  The  only 
occasional  gleam  visible  in  those  soft,  large,  lazy 
eyes  was  once  or  tuice  over  the  post-bag,  on 
getting  an  accidental  letter  or  two :  "  My  moth- 
er's letters" — as  once,  when  my  mother,  in  her 
homely  way,  ventured  the  ghost  of  a  jest,  lie  re- 
plied, with  such  overwhelming  bland  dignity 
that  the  dear  old  lady  was  quenched  for  ever- 
more. 

Still,  as  Jean  observed,  it  was  a  good  sign  in 


him  to  like — if  he  did  always  like,  of  which  we 
were  not  sure — but  at  any  rate  to  be  interested 
in  his  mother's  letters. 

We  knew — from  "Burke"  of  course — who 
his  mother  was ;  a  member  of  a  noble,  indeed, 
a  truly  noble  family ;  also  from  that  most  use- 
ful book,  and  from  various  things  he  himself  let 
fall,  that  she  had  managed  a  somewhat  dilajji- 
dated  property  through  his  long  minority,  faith- 
fully and  well.  There  were  some  sisters,  but 
he  was  the  only  son. 

"I  think,"  Jean  observed,  one  night  when, 
as  usual,  after  he  had  gone  to  bed,  the  rest  of 
us  were  sitting  in  committee  upon  him,  making 
that  domestic  dissection  of  character  which,  as 
I  said  before,  families  and  friends  iv,U  make, 
and  the  only  thing  is  to  take  care  that  it  is  made 
in  good  humor,  justice,  and  charity,  "I  think 
mucli  ought  to  be  forgiven  to  an  only  son." 

Tlie  next  morning,  during  the  garden  walk, 
which,  by  mutual  consent,  had  become  a  habit 
with  my  cousin  and  me,  we  being  always  the 
earliest  risers  in  the  household,  the  subject  was 
again  recurred  to. 

"Jean,"  I  said,  "if  he  stays  over  another 
week — and  I  think  he  will,  for  I  heard  him 
promise  the  Bishop  to  come  to  that  child's  par- 
ty given  for  Lady  Emily  Gage — you  really  will 
have  to  take  your  turn  in  amusing  him.  He 
hangs  heavy  on  my  mother's  hands,  sometimes." 

"  Your  poor  dear  mother  !"  half-amused,  yet 
with  a  vexed  air,  no  doubt  at  things  which  vex- 
ed me  myself  occasionally ;  but  they  were  in- 
evitable, and  it  was  no  use  noticing  them. 
"Mark,"  she  added,  seriously,  "if  a  young  man 
of  four-and-twenty — handsome,  well-educated, 
and  by  no  means  stupid — having  been  Lord 
Erlistoim  from  his  school-days — having  travel- 
ed a  good  deal,  seen  court  life,  common  life, 
nobody  knows  what  life,  at  home  and  abroad — 
his  own  master,  possessing  a  good  fortune,  to- 
gether with  a  mother  and  sister,  whom  he  seem-; 
not  to  dislike,  though  to  love  them  and  own  it 
might  be  a  display  of  feeling  quite  inqjossibij 
— cousin,  if  such  a  young  man  is  not  able  to 
amuse  liimself,  all  I  can  say  is,  that  it  is  a  very 
great  shame." 

"I  did  not  know  you  had  reasoned  so  much 
and  felt  so  strongly  concerning  him." 

"Not  him,  but  the  simple  right  and  wrong 
of  the  question,  of  which  he  is  a  mere  illustra- 
tion." 

"  Yet  you  appraised  him  categorically.  You 
must  have  observed  him  a  good  deal." 

"A  little;  one  can  not  live  in  the  same 
house  with  people  without  forming  some  judg- 
ment upon  them." 

"Do  you  dislike  him,  or  his  manner?  His 
high-bred  manner,  I  mean  ?" 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  like  it ;  it  is  the  exter- 
nal sign  of  those  qualifies  which  a  few  have 
and  twice  as  many  imitate.  His  case  may  be 
either  the  one  or  the  other ;  I  don't  know  yet. 
If  we  only  could  break  this  fine  outside  enamel 
and  get  at  the  real  substance  underneath,  sup- 
posing there  is  any  I" 


10 


LORD  ERLISTOUN. 


"Do  you  think  there  is?" 

"I  am  not  sure.  Mark,  do  you  understand 
me?  I  like  refinement;  I  love  it!  in  every- 
thing and  every  body.  It  is  really  charming 
to  me  sometimes  to  hear  Lord  Eriistoun's  low- 
toned  voice,  and  see  his  quiet  way  of  doing  lit- 
tle civilities,  little  kindnesses — especially  to  wo- 
men. I  i;ive  him  credit  for  every  thing  he  is, 
and  would  not  wish  to  see  him  less,  but  moi'C ; 
I  would  like  to  make  a  man  of  him." 

''  Hush !"  I  said,  for  she  was  too  much  in 
earnest  to  notice,  on  the  other  side  of  the  es- 
palier, footsteps  ;  also  tlie  top  of  a  gentleman's 
hat.      "  'Tis  himself;  I  think  he  heard  you." 

"I  think  he  did."  Jean  set  her  lips  togeth- 
er, and  held  her  head  erect.  Nevertheless,  she 
colored,  as  was  not  unnatural ;  still  more  deep- 
ly when,  at  the  path's  end,  Lord  Erlistoun  cross- 
ed in  front  of  us.  Would  he  pass  on  ?  No  ; 
he  turned  and  bowed. 

"A  fine  day;  you  are  walking  early.  Miss 
Jane,"  with  a  steady  gaze,  thoui.h  he,  too,  seem- 
ed to  have  had  those  "hot  cheeks"  which  arc 
said  to  trouble  people  who  are  talked  of  behind 
their  backs.  "1  have  been  stealing  your  lilies 
of  the  valley  ;  may  I  restore  some  ?" 

Leisurely  keejiing  a  few  and  ])resenting  her 
with  the  rest,  with  a  matter-of-course  air,  as  a 
mere  "devoir"  to  her  sex,  he  lifted  his  hat 
again,  and  sauntered  on. 

"Jean,  I  am  sure  he  heard." 

"I  hope  he  did;  it  was  the  truth,  and  per- 
haps he  docs  not  often  hear  the  truth  ;  it  may 
do  him  good." 

That  notion  of  "doing  good"  to  a  person, 
whicii  women  have,  the  best  and  sincerest  wo- 
men often  most  dangerously  !  Ah,  Jean  !  I 
thought  to  myself,  take  care!  But  fating  those 
eyes,  bent  forward  meditatively  as  she  walked 
— those  eyes  neither  downcast  nor  passionate, 
neither  a  child's  nor  a  girl's,  but  a  woman's, 
with  a  woman's  steady  heart,  I  felt  ashamed  to 
say  of  what  I  wished  her  to  "  take  care." 

I  was  absent  in  Liverjjool  all  day,  but,  with 
hard  traveling,  managed  to  return  at  ni^ht. 
We  had  a  family  j)arty  —  ])ostj)()ncd  a  little, 
waiting  our  guest's  possible  dc])arture,  till  at 
last  my  father  insisted  on  its  being  postponed 
no  longer  —  a  party  of  poor  relations.  By 
"poor"  I  mean  not  indigent,  but  less  wealthy 
and  in  a  less  honorable  position  than  ourselves, 
kindred  wliom,  in  climbing  up  tiic  ladder,  my 
father  had  passed  one  by  one,  and  now  stood 
toward  them  in  the  envied  yet,  perhaps,  unen- 
viable position  of  "the  great  man  of  the  fam- 
ily." 

An  odd,  heterogeneous  gathering  it  was,  as 
we  were  aware  it  would  1)e  under  jircsent  cir- 
cumstances. My  motiicr  had  been  seriously 
alarmed  at  the  idea  of  it  for  days.  "Mercy  on 
us!  what  shall  we  do  witli  Lord  Erlistoun?" 
"What  will  Lord  Erlistoun  think  of  so-and- 
60?"  and  my  fatlier  had  invariably  answered 
her  with  that  dogged  twist  of  the  moutli  which 
had  lielfjcd  him  up  to  the  top  of  the  tree,  and 
that    merry   twinkle   of  the   little  bright   eyes 


which  had  kept  some  enjoyment  for  him  when 
he  got  there. 

"Molly" — he  still  said  " Molly'' sometimes 
in  private,  "I — don't — care." 

I  So  the  good  jieople  came.  I  found  them  all 
in  the  drawing-room  when  I  returned  home. 

Heaven  forbid  I  should  be  hard  ujion  poor 
relations,  even  the  dozens  that,  lying  jierdu 
during  a  man's  struggling  days,  spring  up  like 

1  mushrooms  every  where  under  liis  feet  in  the 
summer  of  his  jirosperity ;  and  the  scores,  still 
worse  and  more  trying,  who,  unable  or  unwill- 
ing to  help  themselves,  expect  always  to  be 
helped  by  somebody  —  him,  of  course;  who, 
wherever  he  goes,  cling  like  a  fringe  of  burrs 
to  his  coat-tails,  not  a  whit  the  better  or  great- 

i  or  in  tliemselves  for  sticking  there,  and  to  the 

1  unhappy  rich  man  neither  a  use  nor  an  orna- 
ment.    Yet,  lot  every  man  do  his  duty,  even 

[  to  these  :  my  father  always  did. 

It  was  good  to  see  him  now  and  then,  on  oc- 
casions like  this,  fill  his  house  with  honest  folk, 
who,  no  doubt,  spent  weeks  after  in  comment- 
ing on  the  grand  cstalilishment  of  "  cousin 
Tom  ;"  to  watch  him,  and  even  my  mother, 
gradually  warm  up  into  old  acquaintanceships 
and  ohl  recollections,  till  at  last  the  verytones 
and  manners,  half  worn -oft',  of  earlier  days 
would  revive,  and  we  would  hear  them  both 
talking  as  broad  Lancashire  as  any  body  pres- 
ent. 

They  did  talk  very  broad,  these  "country 
cousins,"  or  so  it  seemed  to  me  to-night.  I 
was  accustomed  to  it  pretty  veil  in  the  way  of 
business,  and  with  men  ;  but  women  !  And 
then  they  dressed  so  showily,  so  tastelessly ; 
those  Liverpool  ladies  seemed  so  horribly  afraid 
of  being  thought  any  thing  less  than  "ladies," 
and  so  convinced  that  the  only  traveling  jiatent 
of  ladyhood  consisted  of  clothes.  They  ];aid 
great  court  to  my  motlier ;  there  was  always 
an  admiring  grouj)  of  listening  gazers  round  her 
ruddy  velvet  gown,  and  she  was  pleasurably  and 
amiably  consi  ious  (.f  it,  too,  dear  soul !  thuugli, 
perha])s,  just  a  thought  too  ]iatronizing.  But 
with  all  her  j)leasantiiess,  and  the  pains  she 
took  to  amuse  them,  they  seemed  at  first  to 
have  ignored  altogether,  and  then  to  stand  a 
little  in  awe  of  my  cousin  Jean. 

Must  a  man  be  blind  with  jioring  over  a  life- 
time of  ledgers?  or  deaf,  from  hearing  the  in- 
cessant rustle  of  notes  and  chink  of  sovereigns  ? 
I  was  neitlier. 

Let  me  give  all  credit  to  those  worthy  people, 
my  kindred  ;  many  of  them  good  wives,  good 
mothers,  good  daughters,  lively  and  jilcasant  in 
their  own  homes,  though  a  little  awkward  and 
ill  at  ease — more  so  than  we  were  ourselves — 
in  oin"s.  But  when  Jean  crossed  the  room,  in 
her  soft,  rich,  black  dress  ;  when  Jean's  low 
tones  struggled  through  that  awful  Babel  of 
loud  voices,  what  a  contrast !  and  yet  she  was 
of  tliein,  too — her  niotlier  was  a  Brown.  But 
luitiire  itself  Iiad  made  iicr  what  she  was;  dif- 
ferent from  tlicse,  possibly  from  all  other  wo- 
men— oh,  how  different  I 


LORD  ERLISTOUN. 


11 


Some  one  else  saw  it  besides  myself;  other 
eyes  traced  her,  with  slow  observation,  across 
the  room  and  back  again.  Once  or  twice  when 
she  was  talking,  I  saw  him  quit  the  books 
of  prints  in  which  he  had  taken  refuge  and 
listen. 

Doubtless,  Lord  Erlistoun  had  spent  a  very 
dull  day.  My  father,  shrewd  and  wise — neither 
wishing  to  show  off  his  titled  acquaintance,  nor 
thinking  himself  justified  in  mixing  up  hetero- 
geneous classes  against  their  will — had  desired 
that  his  guest  should  be  left  entirely  free  to 
find  his  own  level,  and  join  in  the  society  about 
him  as  much  or  as  little  as  he  chose.  Ferhaj)s 
for  their  comfort,  if  not  their  sagacity,  some  of 
our  good  relations  did  not  even  know  tliat  the 
young  man  who  sat  so  quietly  aloof,  and  talked 
so  little,  was  Nugent,  Baron  Erlistoun. 

"Ask  him  to  play  chess  with  you,"  said 
Jean,  passing  me  toward  the  piano,  where  some 
of  the  old  folk  had  begged  for  one  of  her  old- 
fasliioned  songs. 

I  had  intended  asking  him ;  so  we  soon  sat 
down  face  to  face  to  our  mimic  battle. 

Let  me  do  him  justice,  as  I  tried  to  do  that 
evenin,^  A  finer  face  I  have  never  seen  ;  not 
a  mean  line  in  it.  Something  eclectic  even  in 
his  way  of  handling  the  chessmen  ;  balancing 
over  a  poor  pawn,  in  doubtful  choice,  those 
white  expanded  fingers,  laden  with  a  ring  that 
valued — (I  know  in  a  business  capacity  some- 
thing about  the  value  of  diamonds) — nay,  his 
every  action,  down  to  his  way  of  lounging  back 
on  the  crimson  velvet  chairs,  had  a  freedom 
and  repose — in  addition  to  that  last  grace,  the 
easy  self-possession  which  gives  the  effect  of 
entire  unconsciousness — at  once  admirable  and 
enviable. 

Let  me  do  myself  justice  now.  I  did  not 
envy  him.  Physically  I  might  have  done  a 
little  —  there  are  times  when  most  men  feel 
keenly  Nature's  niggardness ;  but  spiritually, 
never  !  In  any  great  moral  battle — as  in  this 
sham  one  we  were  fighting,  somewhat  unequal- 
ly, as  I  soon  saw,  I  had  an  internal  conviction 
which  would  be  the  victor — which  would  hold 
out  toughest,  strongest,  and  longest.  Lord  Erlis- 
toun or  I. 

He  lost,  as  I  expected,  but  replaced  the  men, 
seeming  to  make  no  account  of  losing. 

"  Do  you  like  the  game.  Lord  Erlistoun  ? 
To  enjoy  chess  requires  a  certain  hard,  mathe- 
matical, calculating  quality  of  brain." 

"Which  I  have  not?  Very  probably.  Nev- 
ertheless, it  amuses:  'pour  passer  le  temps.' 
Your  move,  I  believe  ?" 

He  leaned  back,  and  we  began  another  game, 
keeping  up  the  chess-players'  solemn  silence, 
nor  distracted  therefrom  even  by  Jean's  sing- 
ing. 

She  rarely  sang  in  public  at  Lythwaite. 
Either  she  disliked  it,  or  her  taste  in  music  was 
too  "old-fashioned"  for  our  elegant  friends. 
Now  it  struck  home.  People's  songs  they  were, 
with  the  people's  life  in  them ;  passionate  or 
tender,  merry  or  sad,  but  always  fresh,  warm- 


blooded life.  One  felt  rather  sorry  for  an  ago 
too  refined  to  understand  them. 

"You  like  music,  Lord  Erlistoun?" 

"  Yes.  You  should  have  heard  '  Ernani' 
last  winter  at  La  Scala.     It  was  very  fine. " 

"  My  taste  in  music  is  low.  I  had  rather 
hear  an  English  or  Scotch  ballad  than  a  dozen 
operas." 

"  Chacun  a  son  gout,"  said  Lord  Erlistoun, 
smiling. 

Jean  burst  out  again,  like  a  mavis  from  a 
tree-top,  with  another  of  those  diities  made  for 
all  time — such  as  "  Huntingtower,"  "Robin 
Adair,"  or  "  The  Bonnie  House  o'  Airly."  To 
see  her — to  hear  her — with  her  heart  both  in 
voice  and  eyes — her  true  uomauly  heart — tried 
me.  I  could  not  jilay  chess  for  it.  Lord  Erlis- 
toun apparently  could,  for  ho  won.  Just  as  we 
were  rising,  Jean  looked  across  at  me,  merrily 
and  mischievously— I  know  she  did  it  out  of 
pure  mischief — and  began  afresh — 

"  'O  billie,  billie,  bonnie  billie. 

Will  ye  gae  to  the  woods  wi'  me? 
We'll  ca'  our  horse  hame  masterlcss, 

And  gar  them  trow  slain  men  are  we. 
'  O  no,  O  no,'  says  Earlistoun." 

Lord  Erlistoun  looked  up  quickly ;  Jean  went 
on — 

"  '  O  no,  O  no,'  says  Earlistoun, 

'  For  that's  a  thing  that  maunna  be  ; 
For  I  am  .sworn  to  Bothwell  Hill, 
Where  I  maun  either  gae  or  dee.'  " 

The  ballad  continued,  verse  after  verse,  in  a 
wild,  plaintive  old  tune,  about  this  young  laird's 
rising  "i'  the  morn,"  his 

"  '  Farewell,  father,  and  farewell,  mother. 
And  fare  ye  well,  my  sisters  three ; 
And  fare  ye  well,  my  EarliEtoun, 
For  thee  again  I'll  never  see.'  " 

And  so  on,  ending,  I  think,  with 

"  Alang  the  brae,  beyond  the  brig, 
O  many  there  lie  cauld  and  still; 
And  lang  we'll  mourn,  and  sair  we'll  rue 
The  hluidy  battle  o'  UolhwcH  Hill." 

The  last  line  fell  in  a  faint  echo,  as  if  the  sing- 
er herself  were  moved  by  tlic  sweet  old  song. 
Lord  Erlistoun  rosv?. 

' '  That  ballad — I  never  heard  it  before — may 
I  look  at  it?" 

"You  can  not,  unluckily;  I  sing  it  from 
memory." 

"  Will  you  sing  it  again  ?" 

"  Some  time,  but  not  to-night,  I  think." 

Was  Lord  Erlistoun  so  surprised  by  being 
refused  any  thing  by  any  body,  that  he  did  not 
ask  again  ?  Nevertheless,  he  still  stood  by  the 
piano,  talking  to  her. 

' ' '  The  bluidy  battl  j  o'  Bothwell  IlilL'  There 
was  hard  fighting  in  the  days  of  our  forefathers. 
We  live  an  easier  life  now." 

"Do  you  think  so?" 

"I  mean — let  me  help  you  with  that  music- 
stand;  I  mean,  there  is  a  diff'erence  between 
the  men  of  to-day  and  the  hero  of  your  ballad ; 
Alexander  Gordon,  gf  Earlistoun,  I  think  you 
said  ?" 


12 


LOED  ERLISTOUN. 


"  Certainly,  a  difference." 

Lord  Erlistoun  was  silent. 

Presenily  he  made  another  attempt  at  con- 
versation 

"I  rather  fancy  I  have  a  legitimate  rifjht  in 
that  pretty  ballad  of  yours.  We  are  descended 
collaterally,  I  believe,  from  those  same  Gordons 
of  Earlistoun." 

Jean's  attention  was  caught.  "Ah,  indeed  ? 
Earlistoun  near  Dalr}-,  a  tall  gray  castle,  among 
trees,  in  the  bottom  of  a  wide  valley  surrounded 
by  low  pastoral  hills?" 

"You  seem  to  know  the  place  better  than  I 
do  myself.  In  truth,  save  the  fact  that  the  first 
Lord  Erlistoun  chose  to  take  his  title  from  the 
old  castle,  I  know  very  little  of  those  far-away 
Scottish  ancestors  of  mine.  I  have  been  so 
much  abroad ;  have  become  so  thoroughly  a 
cosmopolite." 

"I  jicrceivc  that." 

"Do  you?"  as  if  he  wished  to  discover 
whether  the  percejjtion  was  favorable  or  un- 
favorable. "You  are  interested,  I  see,  in  those 
days  of  gone-by  romance.  Yet  I  thought  you 
rather  contemned  old  fiimilies?" 

Yes,  he  had  certainlv  overheard  us  this  morn- 
ing — Jean  felt  he  had.  Her  color  rose  pain- 
fully even ;  but  she  was  neither  ashamed  nor 
confused. 

"  I  woidd  be  son-y  to  contemn  any  thing  for 
being  old ;  or,  on  the  other  hand,  to  value  any 
thing  merely  because  it  was  old." 

"You  believe,  tlien,  there  is  some  little  truth 
in  the  doctrine  of  race  ?" 

He  said  it  not  without  pride ;  but  a  pride  too 
accustomed  to  its  possessions  to  mind  either  con- 
denmation  or  justificati(jn  from  others.  Jean 
answered  with  something  of  the  same  feeling, 
though  drawn  from  a  different  source. 

"Thus  far  I  do  believe;  that,  seeing  how 
fast  races  decline  and  funilics  dwindle  and  die 
out — when  a  family  has  maintained  itself  notable 
above  others  for  centuries,  the  chances  are  that 
its  members  must  have  suflReient  fine  (jualities, 
and  tlie  whole  race  enough  vitality,  to  keep  it 
worthy  of  note." 

"  If  so,  can  it  be  a  mean  thing  to  respect 
one's  i)rogenitors  ?" 

"  I  never  said  that,  Lord  Erlistoun.  Any 
one  who  ever  h(jnored  a  dear  fatlier  can  under- 
stand something  of  the  delight  of  honoring  re- 
mote forefathers — when  they  were  deserving  of 
honcjr.  Hut" — and  her  great  bri-ht  eyes  flashed 
light  and  life  enough  to  kindle  a  whole  race — 
"I  think  it  far,  far  beneath  the  honor  of  a  liv- 
ing man  to  go  trading  all  his  days  upon  a  heap 
of  dead  men's  dust." 

Pcrliajis  never  in  all  his  days,  among  his 
noble  English  peeresses,  his  liussian  ]irincesses, 
his  I'aris  "Haronnes" — had  Lord  Erlistoun  seen 
a  woman  sjicak  her  mind  out,  with  all  her  hon- 
est heart,  in  this  way.  Evidently  sini))ly  be- 
.  cause  it  u-us  her  mind  ;  wiiliout  any  reference 
to  or  thought  of  her  interlocutor.  lie  looked 
certainly  a  good  deal  surprised.  With  some 
curiosity,  if  not  admiration,  his  eyes  rested  on 


the  dark,  glowing  face — then  he  stooped  to  help 
her  arrange  her  music. 

"  '  Dowglas,' "  reading  the  lettering  on  a  vol- 
ume ;  "  'Jean  Dowglas.'  I  beg  vour  pardon 
—is  that—" 

"My  name?  Yes;  my  father  was  Scotch. 
My  mother's  name  was  Browne." 

Ay,  Jean,  lift  your  head — speak  uj)  proudly 
of  that  poor  young  mother,  who  had  no  "gen- 
tle" blood,  yet  who  left  some  of  the  bold  plebeian 
energy  of  us  Brown  cs  in  you,  to  help  you  after 
she  died. 

"  Dowglas,"  repeated  Lord  Erlistoun.  "  Spell- 
ed, I  see,  with  the  v;  as  a  very  old  branch  of 
the  Douglases  still  persists  in  spelling  it?" 

This  was  meant  as  a  question,  apparently; 
but  whether  she  belonged  to  that  "'very  old 
branch"  or  not  Jean  did  not  vouchsafe  to  say. 

"Jean,  too.  Have  I  not  always  heard  you 
called  Jane?" 

"My  father  called  me  Jean.  Thank  you. 
Do  not  trouble  yourself  any  more  with  that 
music,  i)ray." 

She  moved  away,  and  busied  herself  for  the 
rest  of  the  evening  in  entertaining  the  poor  re- 
lations. I  did  not  see  her  speak  again  to  Lord 
Erlistoun.  He  sat  in  his  arm-chair,  occupied 
with  his  book  of  prints,  till  at  length  finding 
some  person  worth  talking  to — as  doubtless 
every  one  present  was,  if  only  one  would  dis- 
cover the  right  key  to  unlock  their  hearts  and 
lives — he  began  talking  with  a  good  will. 

When  we  all  separated  for  the  night,  I  no- 
ticed that  he  held  out  his  hand,  which  Jean  had 
never  touched  before — in  a  manner  that  made 
it  impossible  for  her  to  refuse  it. 

"Good-night,  Miss  Dowglas." 

"Good-night,  Lord  Erlistoun." 


CHArTER  IIL 

I WKNT  to  Liverpool  next  day,  but  my  mother 
made  me  promise  to  return  every  Saturday,  re- 
maining till  Monday.  I  did  not  look  well,  she 
said,  and  she  thought  it  was  a  curative  measure; 
but  I  myself  was  not  so  sure  of  tliat. 

A  week  in  the  ofhce,  with  odd  evenings  spent 
in  walking  swiftly  up  and  down  the  busy  Liver- 
])ool  streets,  or  taking  a  two-penny  breeze  on 
the  river,  to  see  the  sun  setting  behind  the 
Great  Orme's  Head,  and  coloring  into  some- 
thing like  beauty  the  long  and  sandy  line  of 
the  Mersey  shore  ;  while  all  the  while  I  knew 
it  was  lighting  up  wavy  grass  meadows.  May 
hedges,  and  merry  rookeries  far  away,  in  those 
lovely  si)ring  evenings,  which  I  never  knew  so 
lovely  any  where  as  at  Lytiiwaite  Hall. 

A  clerk  in  our  house,  speaking  of  my  father's 
new  jilace  one  day,  said  he  knew  it  well  wiicn 
he  was  a  boy.  He  once  spent  a  whole  May 
month  tiicre  with  a  cousin  of  his,  who  was  dead 
now.  He  told  me  how  they  used  to  agree  to 
rise  early  and  stroll  about  the  garden  before  any 
one  else  was  up  ;  go  fishing  in  the  trout  stream, 


LORD  ERLISTOUN. 


18 


and  rook  shooting  in  the  shruhberies — only  she 
did  not  like  that;  how  they  generally  went  to 
church  the  field  way,  where  he  helped  her  over 
the  stiles ;  and  how  he  had  still  the  clearest 
recollection  of  her  face  as  she  sat  opposite  to 
him  listening  to  the  sermon.  She  was  dead 
now,  and  buried — had  been  for  years.  He 
thought  he  should  like  to  get  a  holiday,  and  go 
to  that  village  church  again  some  Sunday. 

Oil,  Jean,  my  cousin  Jean  !  if  you  and  I  had 
been  giii  and  boy  together,  years  ago — if  we 
could  be  boy  and  girl  still,  and  go  hand  in  hand 
tlirou^h  the  gardens  and  over  the  meadows  of 
beautiful  Lythwaite  Hall ! 

When  a  man  lives  an  exceedingly  practical 
and  busy  life,  when  of  necessity  the  one  spot  of 
— rommce  will  you  call  it? — in  his  character 
must  be  reduced  to  a  very  small  space  of  time 
and  thought,  daily,  close  pressed  down,  locked 
down,  as  it  were — it  is  astonishing  what  vitality 
it  preserves,  and  how,  in  the  brief  moment  or 
two  he  allows  it  liberty,  it  ajipears  to  rule  and 
sway  his  whole  being. 

I  seemed  to  have  lived  a  year  in  the  short 
railway  transit  between  Liverpool  and  Lythwaite 
Hall. 

My  mother  was  unfeignedly  glad  to  see  me. 
She  had  been  worried  about  a  good  many  things, 
she  said,  but  that  was  nothing  new.  Poor  body ! 
she  was  always  worried.  "  Could  not  Jean  help 
her?"  I  asked. 

"  Oh,  no!  she  did  not  like  to  say  any  thing  to 
the  poor  dear  girl." 

"Mother,  is  any  thing  the  matter?" 

But  that  minute,  through  the  dusk  of  the  gar- 
den, I  heard  Jean's  laugh,  and  saw  two  figures 
moving  slowly  up  and  down  her  favorite  walk — 
our  favorite  walk. 

"Don't  go  to  them,  Mark — please  don't.  It 
isn't  Charlie — it's  Lord  Erlistoun." 

"Not  gone  yet?" 

"  No ;  nor  seems  inclined  to  go.  And  I  can  t 
help  thinking — though  I  wouldn't  mention  it  to 
her  or  any  body  for  the  world — that  this  visit  of 
his  may  turn  out  a  very  good  thing  for  our  dear 
Jane." 

"A  very  good  thing!"  When  women  say 
that,  they  mean  marriage — supposed  to  be  the 
best  possible  thing  for  any  woman.  My  mother 
— the  worthiest  creature  alive,  and  not  a  bit  of 
a  match-maker — she  also  undoubtedly  meant 
marriage. 

Lord  Erlistoun  wanting  to  marry  Jean  Dowg- 
las  !  Plain  Jean  Dowglas — the  Brownes'  cous- 
in, Jean  Dowglas.  Things  must  have  gone 
very  far  indeed  for  even  my  mother  to  take  into 
her  innocent  head  such  a  "very  good  thing." 

It  must  be  understood  here  that  the  matter ' 
struck  me — who  perhaps  knew  her  better  than 
my  mother  did,  or  any  of  us — solely  in  the  li^ht 
of  Lord  Erlistoun's  wanting  to  marry  Jean ;  a 
very  diflTerent  thing  from  her  consenting  to  niarry 
him. 

"But  if  it  does  come  to  that,"  said  my 
mother,  after  listening  to  all  my  excellent  good 
reasons  to  the  contrary,  and  then  repeating  her  j 


own — "what  will  your  father  say?  and  what 
will  his  mother  say  about  our  having  had  liim 
here — to  entrap  him,  perhaps?  and  what  will 
all  the  world  say" — a  little  pleasure  lurking  in 
her  lament — "our  poor  cousin  Jane  to  be  made 
Lady  Erlistoun?" 

"Hush,  mother !" — for  nearer  came  that  little 
laugh — they  two  were  in  full  and  lively  argu- 
ment about  something ;  they  noticed  nobody 
till  we  were  close  upon  them,  and  then  Jean 
turned  with  a  start  of  surprise. 

"Oh,  Mark — I  am  so  pleased!"  with  un- 
feigned pleasure. 

Lord  Erlistoun  likewise,  with  extended  hand 
and  an  air  of  real  friendship,  was  "exceedingly 
glad"  to  see  me. 

We  all  j(uned  company,  and  paced  up  and 
down  the  garden  till  nearly  starlight.  Jean 
linked  her  arm  in  mine,  and,  turning  to  Lord 
Erlistoun,  went  on  with  the  argument.  I  don't 
remember  what  it  was  about— in  fact,  I  did  not 
hear  much  of  it.  I  only  recollect  noticing  the 
perfect  frankness  and  freedom  of  her  tone — 
mingled  with  a  certain  decision  and  independ- 
ence which  usually  marks  the  intercourse  be- 
tween a  woman  and  a  man  younger  than  her- 
self, and  jiossibly  younger  still  in  character. 

Twenty-four  and  twenty-seven.  Com]jara- 
tively,  a  woman  and  a  boy.  Often  a  boy  wor- 
shi[)S  a  woman,  sometimes  permanently,  always 
devotedfy,  for  as  long  as  the  passion  lasts ;  but 
it  is  rarely  that  a  woman's  love  goes  backward 
on  the  dial  of  life,  to  expend  itself  in  all  its 
depth  and  power — as  a  true  woman  alone  can 
and  ou^ht  to  love — upon  a  ^oy. 

When  starlight  was  exchanged  for  candle- 
light, and  I  had  full  opportunity  of  noticing 
them  both,  I  saw  nothing  in  any  way  to  ( on- 
trovert  this  opinion.  Not  even  when  coming 
back  into  the  drawing-room,  after  all  the  rest 
were  gone,  Jean  found  me  still  sitting  over  the 
fire,  and  stopjjcd  to  talk  a  minute  or  two  ujion  the 
nearest  and  most  natural  topic — Lord  Erlistoun. 

"He  is  here  still,  you  see,  Mark.  He  ap- 
pears to  like  Lythwaite  and  our  steady-going 
home  ways.  And,  upon  my  word,  I  think  they 
have  improved  him  very  much — don't  you?" 

"  He  certainly  is  a  great  deal  altered." 

"  For  the  better  ?" 

"Possibly — yes — I  think,  for  the  better." 

"I  am  sure  of  it.  Not  all  surface-puliteness 
now,  j'ou  may  see  his  kind  heart  through  it. 
And  he  is  beginning  to  feel  the  useh'ss  waste 
of  his  life  hitherto  ;  thinks  of  dashing  into  poli- 
tics, or  piddic  business,  or  literature.  He  longs 
for  something  to  live  for — something  to  do.  He 
says  he  often  envies  you,  Mark,  that  you  hare 
something  to  do." 

"  Does  he  ?" 

"Cousin" — after  a  pause — "I  am  afraid  jou 
don't  quite  like  Lord  Erlistoun,  as  indccil  none 
of  us  (lid  much  at  first ;  but  we  shouM  be  slow  of 
judging.  We  never  know  how  much  good  may 
lie  hid  in  peo])le,  nor  how  good  they  may  finally 
grow.    I  have  great  hopes  of  Lord  Erlistoun." 

I  looked  suddenly  up  at  her,  doubting  for  the 


14 


LORD  ERLISTOUN. 


raoracnt — only  a  moment  —  whether  she,  too, 
were  playing  off  the  usual  feminine  hyj)ocrisy, 
or  whether  she  was  still  her  true  self — my  sjjot- 
less  Jean  Dowglas.     Ay,  she  was. 

"Jean,"  I  said,  feeling  somehow  that  iow  I 
ought  to  say  it  at  all  costs — "  take  care." 

"  Of  what  ?" 

Could  I  answer  I  —  But  she  was  no  child. 
After  a  moment  I  saw  she  had  answered  the 
question  for  herself. 

"I  understand  you;  and,  Mark,  though  it 
was  not  quite  kind  of  you  to  say  that,  still,  such 
friends  as  we  are,  I  should  be  very  sorry  if  for  a 
moment  you  misunderstood  me.  No  ;  I  am  not 
in  the  least  afraid  of — what  you  suijjjose." 

"Why  not?" 

"Why  not!  Because  I  know  myself,  and 
trust  myself.  When  we  are  girls,"  and  she 
sighed — "out  of  our  very  innocence  and  igno- 
rance we  make  mistakes  sometimes ;  but  not 
afterward.  A  young  man  must  be  blind  indeed 
— very  blind,  and  a  little  conceited  too,  if  he 
can  not  discern  at  once  from  the  manner  of  a 
sincere  woman,  whether  she  simply  likes  him, 
or  loves  him." 

"That  is  true." 

"  So,  cousin  Mark,"  smiling,  "  do  not  be  un- 
just again,  either  to  me  or  to  Lord  Erlistoun." 

No,  I  wished  not  to  be.  I  made  every  cdort 
to  see  things  justly,  and  as  Jean  herself  saw 
them  ;  and,  perhaps,  her  vision  was  cle\ir  then. 
Perhaps,  had  Lord  Erlistoun  left  that  day,  or 
even  the  next,  he  might  have  merely  carried 
away  with  him  the  remembrance  of  a  noble  and 
unworldly  woman,  who,  in  the  totally  opposite 
world  in  which  he  dwelt,  might  have  been  nn 
element  of  jMirity  and  goodness,  lasting  at  inter- 
vals all  his  life  long.  But  iti  these  things,  peo- 
ple frequently  go  on  safe  and  sure  to  a  certain 
point — they  cross  that,  on  some  idle  hour,  in 
some  unconscious  way,  and  there  is  no  going 
back,  ever  again. 

On  the  Sunday  evening  we  took  a  walk,  Jean, 
Lord  Erlistoun,  and  I ;  through  the  same  fields, 
which  our  old  clerk  in  Liverjjool  had  been  talk- 
ing of.  It  was  such  an  evening  as,  perhaps, 
poor  old  fellow !  he  had  enjoyed  many  with  that 
little  cousin  of  his  ;  the  sort  of  evening  which 
always  puts  me  in  mind  of  Wordsworth's  foolish- 
wise  rhymes — Jean  repeated  them,  sitting  on  a 
stile,  eating  clover-honey — 

'"Oh,  who  would  go  parading 
In  London,  and  masqutrading 
On  siicli  a  nit;lit  of  June, 
"With  tliat  hcauliful  coft  half-moon, 
And  all  tlitse  iiuiocont  hlisKcs, 
Of  such  a  niglit  as  this  is?"  " 

"  ^\1io  would  indeed  ?  But  T  am  afraid  I 
must  soon."  And  Lord  Krlistoun  leaned  against 
the  stile,  listening  to  the  sad,  sleepy,  far-off 
"caw-caw"  of  the  rookery — looking  up  at  the 
face  of  the  "soft  half-nuKjn,"  and  tluni,  at  an- 
other face  ;  also  (juiet,  also  liitlier  sad — as  if  in 
the  pathos  of  the  hour  .Jean  had  gone  back  into 
former  years — sanctuaries  of  her  checkered  life, 
whither  uo  one  could  follow  her. 


"Miss  Dowglas.s" — she  started  slightly  ;  "I 
wish  you  knew  my  mother.  You  would  like  her, 
for  many  tilings — and  I  think  likewise — "  He 
stopped — "I  had  a  letter  from  licr  this  morn- 
ing ;  would  you  feel  interested  in  reading  it  ?" 

"  Thank  you  ;  you  know  my  fancy  for  read- 
ing strangers'  letters.  Sometimes  they  let  one 
into  bits  of  character  unknown  to  the  corre- 
spondents themselves." 

"  I  wonder  what  you  will  find  out  here  I" — 
and  he  lingered  over  it — the  delicate-tinted, 
scented  envelojie,  with  its  exquisite  handwriting 
and  large  coroneted  seal,  Hjefore  he  put  it  into 
Jean's  hands.  "Read  it  all,  if  you  will,  ex- 
ce])ting,  indeed,  the  crossed  page.  She  has  but 
one  fault,  this  good  mother  of  mine — like  her 
one  crossed  page." 

Jean  read  and  returned  the  letter.  "But  I 
ought  to  tell,"  she  said,  smiling,  "that  I  saw 
one  word — I  tliink  the  name  of  '  Emily  or  Emc- 
lia' — on  this  momentous  page." 

"Oh!  no!  quite  a  mistake!"  —  with  one 
passing  flash,  fierce  and  bright,  that  showed 
what  fire  lurked  in  even  Lord  Erlistoun's  eyes. 
He  put  the  letter  in  his  jiockct  and  returned  to 
the  subject  we  had  been  lazily  canvasi^iug  alurg 
the  fields,  as  if  in  contrast  to  every  thing  around 
us,  namely,  London  life,  "high"  life — as  set 
forth  in  that  most  sjjarkling,  hateful,  and  melan- 
choly of  fictions,  whose  very  brilliancy  tortures 
one  like  the  jihantasmagoria  of  disease — Thack- 
eray's "Vanity  Fair." 

"Tlie  question  seems,"  Jean  said,  "is  it  a 
true  picture  of  that  sort  of  life  ? — I  would  never 
shrink  from  any  truth  merely  because  it  wus 
jiainful — but,  is  it  true  ?  I  have  no  means  of 
judging.      Is  it  true.  Lord  Erlistoun  ?" 

"I  am  afraid,  in  a  great  measure,  it  is." 

"Then,  I  would  nither  say  to  any  sister  of 
mine,  like  Ilandet,  '  (Jet  you  to  a  nunnery  ;  go, 
go,  go,'  than  see  her  thrown  out  into  the  great 
world,  to  grow  into  the  sort  of  woman  you  have 
described  sometimes.  I  couldn't  liel|>  thinking 
so,  even  in  the  cathedral  this  morning,  when  I 
looked  across  the  aisle  to  the  pretty  baby-face 
of  that  little  Lady  Emily  Gage." 

Lord  Erlistoun  knocked  the  mud  off  liis  boots 
— he  was  not  afraid  of  muddy  boots  now — say- 
ing, carelessly, 

"  Miss  Dowghis,  what  is  your  opinion  tf  that 
small  schotil-girl  ?" 

"  Lady  Emily  ?  Indeed,  I  have  no  possible 
grounds  for  forming  an  o|  inion  at  all.  I  only 
now  and  then  have  felt  sorry,  looking  at  her,  to 
think  how  soon  her  child-life  will  cnii.  I  always 
feel  great  jiity  for  an  heiress.  She  has  less  than 
the  common  chances  of  us  women." 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?  that  she  is  likely  to  be 
loved  for  any  thing  except  herself  "i"' 

"  Or  if  she  were,  she  would  be  unlikely  to  be- 
lieve it.     Poor  little  Lady  Emily." 

"Dcm't  waste  your  pity  over  Lady  Emily. 
You  might  spcntl  a  fragment  of  it  iqion  us  men 
— men  of  the  world — who  never  find  a  woman 
to  believe  in ;  who  are  nought,  flattered,  hunted 
down,  as  it  were  ;  afraid  to  look  at  a  pretty  face 


LORD  ERLISTOUN. 


lest  it  should  be  only  a  bait  to  hook  us  with  ; 
afraid  to  trust  a  warm  heart,  lest  it  should  turn 
out  as  Iiollow  as  this  worm-cast  under  my  foot. 
What  chance  is  there  for  us  men,  when  we  have 
lost  our  reverence  for  women?" 

"Not  for  all  women,"  said  Jean,  gently;  for 
he  had  spoken  with  passion,  as  certainly  I  never 
in  my  wildest  thought  expected  to  hear  Lord 
Erlistoun  speak.  "  You  have  told  me  of  your 
mother." 

"And  what  does  my  mother  do,  even  my 
mother?"  his  tone  was  lowered,  but  I  could  not 
help  hearing'  it.  "  She  writes  me  that  there  is 
a  charming  creature  just  ready  for  me — one 
whose  estate  joins  mine,  and  therefore  will  ne  a 
most  suitable  match,  with  a  good  fortune — and  1 
am  poor,  you  know — good  birth,  good  looks,  and 
in  short,  every  thing  convenient,  except  love. 
Shall  I  go  in  a  year  or  so,  propose  to  her,  and 
marry  hsr  ?" 

"  1  thought  you  said  that  for  ten  or  fifteen 
years  to  come  you  were  determined  not  to  mar- 
ry?" 

"  So  I  was.  I  abhor  matrimony.  Of  course 
after  a  time  I  must  settle  down,  as  others  do, 
but  I  will  have  my  liberty  as  long  as  I  can. 
When  I  do  sell  myself,  it  shall  be  tolerably  dear, 
even  though  it  be  to  this  young  lady.  I  won't 
tell  you  her  name,  l?st  perhaps  I  might  finally 
marry  her." 

Whether  lie  was  in  earnest  altogether,  I  know 
not,  but  Jean  was.  You  should  have  seen  her 
look  of  mingled  pity  and  scorn. 

"Lord  Erlistoun,  we  will  if  you  please  dis- 
cuss a  less  serious  subj^'ct ;  on  this,  you  and  I 
could  never  think  alike." 

"Could  we  not?" 

Perhaps  he  felt  that,  regarding  sideways  the 
dark,  noble  face,  on  which  the  last  bit  of  sunset 
was  s'aining,  a  pale  face  too,  for  she  did  not  look 
either  particularly  well,  or  particularly  young, 
while  in  his  unwonted  energy,  stronger  than 
ever  I  saw  the  distinction  before  spoken  of,  be- 
tween the  woman  and  the  boy.  Equally  strong 
between  the  one  who,  living  in  the  world,  lived 
only  for  it,  and  its  ideal  of  happiness ;  and  the 
other  who,  also  abiding  in  it,  and  enjoying  it  so 
far  as  fortune  allowed  her,  had  yet  an  ideal,  a 
spiritual  sense,  far,  far  beyond  it. 

"  You  think,  I  perceive,  that  I  am  fit  for  no- 
thing better  than  to  turn  out  one  of  those  peo- 
ple you  hate  so  in  '  Vanity  Fair' — a  Marquis  of 
Steyne,  perhaps?" 

"  I  never  said  so  or  thought  so.  Lord  Erlis- 
toun." 

' '  What  would  you  have  me  do,  then  ?  W^hat 
would  you  have  me  be  ?" 

I,  leaning  on  the  other  gate-post,  apart  from 
them,  was  struck  by  this  speech.  It  is  not  a 
light  matter  when  a  man  arrives  at  asking  a 
woman  "what  she  would  have  him  be?"  I'er- 
haps  Jean  was  struck  too,  for  she  replied,  rather 
coldly — 

"  Indeed,  you  are  the  best  judge  of  that ;  ev- 
ery man  must  be  the  keeper  of  his  own  con- 
science." 


"  But  he  may  gain  a  better  self,  a  purer  con- 
science, to  help  liim.  Miss  Dowglas,  shall  I 
take  my  mother's  advice  and  marry?" 

"No!"  and  the  truth  in  her,  the  duty  of 
speaking  it,  seemed  to  make  Jean  forget  every 
thing  else.  "After  the  fashion  of  marriage 
you  have  told  me  of,  undoubtedly  no !  For 
those  who  see  no  clearer  —  know  no  better  — 
much  may  be  allowed ;  but  for  you  who  do — 
nothing." 

I  saw  Lord  Erlistoun  smile  to  himself.  ' '  You 
do  not  quite  understand  me." 

"Yes,  I  think  I  do,  but  we  see  things  from 
such  opposite  points  of  view.  You  have  always 
been  used  to  consider  marriage  as  a  bargain,  a 
convenience,  a  matter  of  necessary  respectaljili- 
ty ;  I  think  it  a  sacred  thing.  There  can  be  no 
medium  in  it,  it  must  be  either  holy  or  unholy ; 
entire  happiness,  or  utter  wretchedness  and  sin. 
For  man  or  woman  to  marry  without  love — not 
merely  liking,  or  decent  respect,  but  downright 
love — is,  to  my  thinking,  absolute  sin." 

Lord  Erlistoun  replied  never  a  word.  All 
along  the  still  twilight  fields  he  scarcely  made 
one  observation.  It  was  my  hand  that  helped 
Jean  over  the  stiles  ;  he  did  not  ofter  to  do  it. 
My  hand,  large  and  hard  it  might  be,  not  like 
his ;  but  a  man's  pulse  beat  in  it — it  could  sup- 
port, and  it  could  hold  fast,  too. 

"  Will  you  take  another  turn  up  and  down 
the  walk.  Miss  Dowglas?" 

"  No,  it  is  too  late  ;  I  had  rather  go  in." 
She  slipped  away.     Was  it  with  the  same 
sort  of  instinct  that,  whenever  Lord  Krlistoun 
came  near  her,  for  the  whole  remainder  of  the 
evening,  she  slipped  away  ? 

Well  do  I  remember  that  evening  and  the 
look  Jean  had.  Her  face  was  a  little  flushed, 
and  there  was  a  certain  unquietness  in  it.  She 
sat  at  the  piano  a  long  time  singing ;  it  had 
become  a  custom,  I  found,  that  she  should  sing 
every  night,  and  to  no  lack  of  listeners.  What 
she  chose,  in  spite  of  one  or  two  hints  to  the 
contrary  from  Lord  Erlistoun,  who  seemed  a 
little  surprised  at  our  narrow  notions  about 
"  Sunday"  music,  were  songs  of  Ilandel  and 
Mendelssohn,  among  which,  I  remember,  were 
some  of  their  solemnest  and  most  spiritual — 
"  I  know  that  my  Redeemer  liveth,"  and  "  Oh 
rest  in  the  Lord;"  ending,  at  my  father  and 
mother's  desire,  with  an  old-fashioned  Method- 
ist hymn.  We  were  Methodists  when  I  was  a 
child,  and  how  the  tune  carried  me  back  to  the 
little  hot  chapel  in  Rathbone  Street,  where, 
after  some  fierce,  coarse,  strongly  emotional 
sermon,  the  congregation  rose,  and  their  stout 
Lancashire  voices  threw  the  chorus  backward 
and  forward,  women  and  men  alternately. 
"  For  we're  marcliiug  on  Enimaniicrs  ground, 

AVe  Boon  shall  hear  the  trumpet  sound. 

And  we  all  shall  mett  at  Jesus'  feet, 
And  never,  never  part  again. 

No,  never  part  again — no,  never  part  again — 

Oh,  never  part  again — no,  never  pari  again; 

For  we  all  shall  meet  at  Jesus'  feet. 
And  never,  never  part  again!" 

Oh,  life  :— life  so  full  of  partings  !     I  have 


1« 


LORD  ERLISTOUN. 


often  qnietcd  the  pain  of  it  with  a  bit  out  of 
that  old  Methodist  liymn  ;  with  the  echo  of  that 
"never  part  again." 

I  was  up  eai  ly  on  the  Monday,  as  usual,  hut 
my  father  caugiit  and  carried  me  off  to  look 
at  some  horses  he  had  bought  for  the  new 
brougham,  so  that  I  did  not  get  my  early  walk 
with  Jean.  She  had  taken  hers,  thougli  ;  for  I 
met  her  in  the  hall  laying  her  hat  aside.  !She  was 
late,  and  we  waited  some  minutes  for  her,  before 
she  came  down  to  make  breakfast.  All  break- 
fast time  she  was  exceedingly  silent  and  grave. 

Lord  Eriistoun  did  not  appear  till  the  meal 
was  nearly  over.  When  he  did,  I  noticed  that 
Jean  blushed  burning  hot — in  trouble  and  pain 
—  a  very  anguish  of  blusiiing.  He  did  not 
speak  to  her,  even  to  wish  her  good-morning, 
but  took  his  seat  near  the  foot  of  the  table,  and 
entered  with  my  father  into  a  long  and  ener- 
getic discussion  on  politics.  In  tlie  course  of 
it  I  overheard  that  he  had  some  thought  of 
Standing  for  a  small  borough  in  the  South  of 
England,  and  to  do  so  it  Avould  l)C  imuiediatcl}' 
necessary  for  him  to  leave  for  London. 

I  breathed.  Yes,  he  was  going  away  at  last. 
Maybe  1  could  even  feel  sorry  for  the  young 
man. 

He  did  not  seem  much  moved  himself.  He 
carried  things  \\ith  a  high  hand,  and  stood  talk- 
ing with  energy  and  ein/in'sstiiier/f  of  the  great 
pleasure  he  had  enjoyed  at  Lythwaite  Hall ; 
but  I  noticed  he  did  not  give  any  of  us  the 
slightest  invitation  to  return  the  visit. 

Ay,  in  a  few  hours  he  would  be  gone.  The 
new  element  he  iiad  brought  into  our  house- 
hold— as  he  certainly  had,  since  different  char- 
acters and  classes  nuist  necessarily  act  and  re- 
act upon  one  another — would  depart  with  him. 
My  mother  miglrt  cease  to  put  herself  and  her 
house  into  full-dress  every  evening,  and  my 
fatiier  to  bring  out  his  claret  every  day  as  if  for 
a  dinner-party.  We  should  go  back  to  our  old 
ways,  and  Lord  Eriistoun  to  his.  Could  we? 
or  could  he  ?  Can  any  new  experience  in  any 
life  be  merely  temporary,  leaving  no  result  be- 
hind?    I  doubt  it. 

Nevertheless,  he  would  most  probably  van- 
ish completely  out  of  our  sjiliere,  as  if  he  had 
dropjied  at  J.,ythwaite  from  a  balloon,  and  gone 
up  again  by  the  same  ethereal  conveyance. 
Would  any  body  miss  him?  Would  any  body 
care  ? 

Of  this,  too,  I  was  not  quite  sure. 

"  Liking,"  not  loving  ;  used  in  opposition  to 
loving,  rather;  but  most  certainly  she  had  said 
the  word,  and  she  did  not  even  "  like"  every 
body. 

"  Mark,  are  you  going  to  walk  to  the  sta- 
tion ?      I'll  walk  with  you." 

So  once  again  went  Jean  and  I  under  the 
chestnut  trees,  where  the  white  flowers  now 
lay  strewn,  soiled,  and  scentless,  beneath  our 
feet. 

"Cousin,  you  had  Letter  reconsider  the  chcst- 
hufs  that  are  to  be  in  your  park.  Vou  see  '  it 
is  not  always  May.'  " 


"  Ah,  no !"  with  a  slight  sigh.  "  Mark,  yotj 
need  not  make  public  that  foolish  speech  of 
mine." 

"  About  owning  a  park?  You  never  mean 
to  own  one,  then  ?" 

Whether,  involuntarily,  I  put  into  this  ques- 
tion some  meaning  below  the  surface,  1  know- 
not  :  but  Jean  answered,  seriously  and  em- 
phatically, "No." 

Still,  as  she  walked  along,  though  her  head 
was  erect  and  her  footfall  firm,  and  she  talked 
easily  and  cheerily  upon  our  usual  family  top- 
ics, I  fancied  I  could  trace  at  times  the  same 
unquietness  of  mien,  as  of  a  good  and  true  na- 
tiu'e  not  quite  satisfied  \\ith  itself.  She  was 
"out  of  sorts,"  as  j)eople  say — out  of  harmony 
with  herself  and  with  the  lovely  June  morning. 
It  seemed  almost  to  give  her  pain. 

Waiting  at  the  station — for  she  would  wait 
— she  took  my  arm  to  walk  up  and  down  the 
platform. 

"Oh,  Mark,"  clinging  a  little,  "I  wish  you 
were  not  going  away ;  there  is  some  comfort  in 
you." 

I  asked  her,  after  some  consideration,  if  any 
thing  was  troubling  her — would  she  tell  me? 

"  No,  I  had  rather  not.  In  fact,  I  ought  not. 
It  is,  after  all,  really  nothing.  It  will  be  quite 
over  by-and-by.  If  I  were  not  sure  of  that,  as 
sure  as —     There's  your  train  !" 

"The  next  train  goes  at  li  40.  Express,  re- 
member. Lord  Eriistoun  wished  me  to  inquire. 
He  goes  by  it." 

"Oh,  indeed!" 

"Jean — one  word.  Are  you  sorry  or  glad 
he  is  going?" 

"  Very  glad — heartily  glad." 

"  But  he  may  change  his  mind  again — he 
has  a  trick  of  doing  so.     Ah,  Jean,  take  care." 

"I  /utve  taken  care." 

"  You  are  not  angry  at  my  saying  this?" 

"No.     Good-by!" 

My  sight  rested  on  her  there,  for  as  long  ag 
the  whiiling  train  allowed,  standing  fixed  and 
firm,  with  her  shawl  gathered  tight  round  her, 
as  if  nothing  in  her  or  about  her  was  to  be  left 
loose,  subject  to  any  stray  wind  of  fancj-,  feel- 
ing, or  chance. 


CIIAI'TEIl  IV. 


Business  kept  me  in  Liverpool  for  three 
weeks,  without  intermission.  My  father  could 
only  find  time  to  go  down  once  to  Lythwaite 
for  a  day  and  a  night.  The  iniessant  burden 
and  responsibility  of  money-making,  money- 
turning,  and  money-sj)ending — the  cruel  slavery 
of  riciics — sometimes  weighed  heavily  upon  even 
his  stout  heart. 

"Oh,  Mark!"  he  would  sometimes  say  to  mc, 
when  we  w^cre  haying  om*  heads  together  over 
business  matters  in  the  small  jiarlor  until  long 
after  office-hours,  "I  sometimes  think  I'd  ha' 
done  better  to  ha'  left  thee  a  clerk,  as  I  was 
myself  when   thee  wert  a  bit  of  a  lad,  going 


LORD  ERLISTOUN. 


IT 


back'ards  and  for'ards  twixt  this  and  tlie  little 
house  at  Everton.  Heiglio,  my  boy !  I  hope 
thee'll  get  more  good  than  thy  father  gets  out 
of  Lythwaite  Hall." 

It  did  sometimes  seem  to  me  strange  that  lie 
and  I,  working  here  in  this  musty  rooni  under 
the  coarse  flare  of  gaslight,  sometimes  lifting 
our  eyes  from  the  mass  of  papers  and  mazes  of 
figures  to  exchange  a  word  or  two,  then  again 
silence ;  it  seemed  passing  strange  that  he  and 
I  should  have  any  part  or  lot  in  the  splendors 
of  Lythwaite  Hall.    " 

For  its  splendors,  they  might  go  to  the  winds, 
but  then  it  had  some  sweetnesses  too.  Every 
Sunday — that  bein;,'  the  only  day  I  had  time  to 
let  them  come — I  used  to  be  haunted  by  wafts 
from  the  May-hedges,  by  the  sound  of  rooks 
cawing,  or  the  soft  single  twitter  of  young 
thrush^'s  going  to  sleep  in  the  rustling  trees. 

On  Monday,  when  my  father  came  back,  I 
asked  him  if  all  were  going  on  well  at  home. 

"All  well,  and  j)articularly  quiet ;  your  moth- 
er," with  a  twinkle  of  his  keen  eye,  "your  poor 
dear  mother  has  quite  given  up  telling  folk  how 
very  much  she  misses  Lord  Erlistoun." 

He  was  gone,  then,  safe  and  sure.  Well,  let 
him  go,  and  prosperity  go  with  him.  He  was 
a  fine  fellow  in  his  way,  but  he  could  have  done 
us  little  good,  or  we  him.  Why  he  came  among 
us  at  all,  whether  from  self-interest  (yet,  rich 
and  influential  as  my  father  was,  common  jus- 
tice condemned  me  for  suspecting  the  young 
nobleman  of  that),  or  whether  it  was  one  of 
thos2  mere  idle  adventures  which  an  idle  youn;^ 
man  is  prone  to,  I  was  still  ignorant,  and,  to 
throw  no  further  mystery  over  the  matter,  I  re- 
main ignorant  to  this  day. 

Sometimes,  in  the  dull  round  of  business, 
which  chained  my  father  and  mys?U'  as  effect- 
ually as  if  we  were  two  horses  in  a  mill,  or  two 
convicts  working,  hand -fasted,  side  by  side, 
there  would  suddenly  come  across  me  a  vision 
of  that  easy,  enjoyable  lifj,  jjictures  from  which 
Lord  Erlistoun  had  given  us  at  Lythv.aitc,  and 
I  had  seen  Jean's  eyes  light  up  on  listening — 
pictures  of  summer  sunrises  in  the  A1|!S — of 
summer  sunsets  over  the  Euganean  hills — of 
exquisite  moonlights,  brighter  than  our  dull 
northern  days,  while  lazily  rocking  on  the  blue 
Mediten'anean  seas,  or  skimming  in  and  out 
among  the  lovely  isles  of  the  Grecian  Archipel- 
ago. All  pleasure,  nothing  but  pleasure,  bound- 
ed by  no  duties,  burdened  with  no  cares. 

Yet  would  I  have  exchanged  lives  ?     No. 

One  Saturday  afternoon,  when  I  was  just 
thinking  of  him,  thinking,  too,  whether  it  would 
be  possible  to  get  away  by  the  last  train  that 
night  for  a  little,  a  very  little  "pleasure,"  my 
notion  of  pleasure,  our  housekeeper  ushered  into 
the  back  parlor  "  Lord  Erlistoun." 

I  was  surprised,  and  probably  I  showed  it,  for 
lie  looked  rather  awkward,  that  is,  awkward  for 
him. 

Again — as  I  seem  always  to  keep  on  saying — 
let  me  be  just  to  him ;  let  me  not  deny  that  del- 
icate courtesy,  that  charming  grace  which  made 
B 


the  least  thing  he  did  well  done,  which,  after 
the  first,  forced  the  little  dark  parlor  and  me  to 
catch  the  influence  of  his  comjiany.  He  gave 
no  reasons  for  his  visit,  except  a  slight  ajjology 
for  "  interruption,"  but  sat  down  as  if  determ- 
ined to  be  friendly  and  at  ease. 

We  talked  upon  ordinary  topics  ;  then,  on  his 
inquiring  after  mv  "family,"  about  Lythwaite 
Hall. 

"You  go  down  every  Saturday,  I  believe?" 

Was  that  the  reason  of  his  coming  ?  Was 
it  only  through  me  that  he  could  hear,  as,  in 
spite  of  all  his  calm  politeness,  he  seemed  ner\'- 
ously  eager  to  hear,  anv  tidings  of  Lvthwaito 
Hall? 

At  my  age  a  man  is  seldom  without  some 
penetration,  especially  when  his  observation  is 
sharpened  by  ceitain  facts  which  concern  no 
one  but  himself  I  think  I  can  detect  false- 
hood in  feeling  or  expression,  and  can  likewise 
respect  any  feeling  which  is  evidently  honest 
and  true. 

Jean  had  "taken  care,"  she  jflainly  said. 
Perhaps  one  might  even  afford  a  little  tem- 
])orary  regret  for  the  temporary  jiain  of  youRg 
Lord  Erlistoun. 

I  told  him  I  did  not  go  every  Saturday,  but 
intended  to  be  at  home  to-night. 

"Ah !  indeed !  It  must  be  a  pleasant  thing 
to  be  able  to  say,  as  you  say  it,  that  thoroughly 
English  word,  'home.'" 

Thereu])on  we  diverged,  in  an  abstract  way, 
upon  different  branches  of  this  same  subject.  I 
detected  in  Lord  Erlistoun's  conversation  many 
turns  of  thought,  nay,  even  of  phrase,  whidi  1 
recognized  as  my  cousin  Jean's.  I  have  often 
noticed  this  fact — how  one  person  will  involun- 
tarily imitate,  not  merely  the  tone  of  mind,  but 
slight  peculiarities  of  word  or  gestures  belonging 
to  the  one  other  person  who  has  most  influence 
over  him  or  her. 

Again,  I  say,  both  on  this  account  and  from 
a  certain  restlessness  which,  well  as  lie  disgui.-ed 
it,  pervaded  his  whole  manner,  thoughts,  and 
plans — for  he  poured  out  to  me,  unwillinj,  and 
unresponsive  confidant,  a  great  many  of  these 
— I  could  not  help  feeling  sorry  for  Lord  Erlis- 
toun. 

Rising  to  leave,  he  said,  suddenly,  "  You  are 
going  iiomo  to  night ;  might  1  burden  you  with 
these  :" 

Two  letters,  one  addressed  to  my  mother,  the 
other  to  Miss  Dowglas.  Probably  he  noticed  my 
surprise,  for  he  continued — 

"They  are,  you  perceive,  ft-om  Lady  YaYis- 
toun.  She  wished  them  delivered  to-night,  and 
I  think — I  have  reason  to  bcHevc — your  Lyth- 
waite jjost  is  uncertain.  May  I  ask  of  you  tiiis 
favor,  on  the  part  of  my  mother?" 

He  always  spoke  somewhat  haughtily  when 
mentioning  the  word  "favor;"  and  yet  to-day 
there  was  a  hesitating  humility  about  hiui,  too. 

"  I  was  not  aware  of  any  shortcomings  in 
the  Lythwaite  jwst ;  but  I  will  deliver  theM 
safely." 

"  Thank  you.    And  you  return  on  Monday  ?" 


18 


LORD  ERLISTOUN. 


"I  really  can  not  inform  you,  Lord  Erlis- 
toun." 

All  these  miles  the  letters  seemed  to  lie  burn- 
ing in  my  pocket.  Men,  especially  young  men, 
Tiait  about  as  they  will,  in  circles  lower  or 
higher  than  their  own.  If  honorable  in  them- 
selves, there  is  no  reason  why  they  should  not 
be  accepted  and  acceptable  ;  but  with  women  it 
is  dirtcrent — or  society  thinks  so.  "What  on 
earth  did  Lady  Erlistoun  want  with  my  motlier 
and  my  cousin  Jean  ? 

I  reached  home  late  :  they  had  not  expected 
me.  The  drawing-room  windows  were  dark  ; 
however,  in  the  little  breakfast-room  I  found 
them  both,  presiding  over  a  large  heap  of  new 
household  linen,  my  mother  looking  busy  and 
pleased,  as  she  always  did  when  on  any  excuse 
she  could  put  off  the  fine  lady  and  be  the  house- 
wife once  more  ;  Jean  rather  pale  and  anxious, 
but  she  brightened  up  when  she  saw  me  at  the 
door. 

"Ah,  cousin  Mark!" 

"Mark,  my  dear  boy!" 

Lord  Erlistoun  had  said  truly ;  it  was  pleas- 
ant coming  home.  I  did  not  for  an  hour  or 
more  deliver  the  two  letters.  My  mother  opened 
hers  in  a  flutter  of  curiosity. 

"Dear  me  !    Bless  my  heart  I    Why,  Jane." 

But  Jean  had  taken  up  hers  and  gone  out  of 
the  room. 

When  she  came  back  it  was  merely  to  say 
"Good-night,  Msrk;"  and  she  said  it  hastily. 
Two  hot  roses  burnt  on  each  cheek,  but  her 
hand  was  very  cold.     It  struck  to  my  heart. 

I  am  no  advocate  for  the  romantic  dignity  of 
silence — that  is  between  two  people  who,  how- 
ever much  or  little  their  mutual  regard,  under- 
stand and  believe  in  one  another.  With  such, 
silence  is  often  no  virtue  ;  merely  cowardice, 
selfishness,  or  pride. 

"Don't  go,"  I  said,  "I  want  to  speak  to 
you." 

" I  cant !  I  must  not  stay." 

"  Only  a  minute ;  sit  down" — for  she  was  trem- 
bling. "  Lady  Erlistoun  is  coming  to  call  here 
on  Monday.     IJid  you  know  ?" 

"  Yes,  he  told  me." 

He! — that  little  momentous  word!  But  I 
passed  it  over  ;  it  would  not  do  to  stand  upon 
trifles  now. 

"  Cousin,  I  should  like  to  know — not  that  I 
have  the  smallest  right  to  ask,  and  you  must 
not  answer  if  you  have  the  slightest  objection, 
but  I  should  just  like  to  know,  in  explanation 
of  something  he  let  foil,  whetlier  you  have  heard, 
since  he  left,  from  Lord  Erlistoun  ?" 

She  paused  a  moment,  and  then  said  slowly 
and  sadly,  "  He  has  written  to  me  almost  every 
day,  but  I  have  never  answered  a  single  letter." 

Ko  need  to  ask  what  the  letters  were  about ; 
no  need  to  guess  what  their  effect  must  have 
l>een,  coming  thus,  every  day — and  strong  must 
have  been  the  imjiulse  to  make  Lord  Erlistoun 
do  any  thing  regularly  every  day — coming  from 
a  young  man  fresh  in  all  the  passion,  the  poetry, 
the  energy  of  his  youth. 


I  stood  silent  by  the  chimney-piece  ;  meeting 
in  the  mirror  over  it,  a  familiar  face — well  known 
in  Liverpool  warehouses  and  on  the  Liverpool 
'Change.  Seeing,  too,  in  the  distance  beyond, 
that  poor  flushed  face  of  Jean's.  At  last  she 
turned  rind  hid  it  on  the  sofa-pillow. 

"Do  help  me,  Mark!  I  have  been  so  very 
miserable." 

I  took  a  chair  and  sat  down  ;  opposite  the 
grate,  with  my  back  to  her  ;  and  said  something 
or  another.  Then  I  waited — and  waited  in  vain. 
My  mother  called  from  ihe  stair-case  "  Mark,  it's 
bedtime — see  that  the  house  is  locked  up" — and 
I  answered  from  the  parlor-door,  to  jircvcnt  her 
coming  in. 

"Now  Jean,  tell  me?" 

She  told  me  ;  just  what  I  had  feared — nay, 
expected.  There  is  no  necessity  to  give  her 
precise  words  ;  indeed,  she  exjilained  no  more 
than  the  bare  fact  that  she  might  have  been 
Lady  Erlistoun. 

"  I  thought  you  said  you  had  '  taken  care?'  " 

"Ay,  that's  the  thing.  It  was  my  jride,  my 
wicked  self-reliance.  I  thought  1  was  doing 
him  good  ;  I  wanted  to  do  him  pood;  I  liked 
him  to  like  me.  But  I  never  thought — Oh  Mark, 
if  I  did  wrong,  I  have  been  punished." 

Punished !  Then,  even  though  his  letters 
came  day  after  day ;  even  though  by  some  un- 
accountable means  he  had  persuaded  his  lady- 
mother  to  visit  and  condescendingly  investigate 
his  choice — there  was  no  fear.  I  had  judged 
her  rightly.  Our  Jean  would  not  marry  Lord 
Erlistoun. 

"  I  know  it  will  not  last — he  is  too  young. 
After  a  little  it  will  seem  to  him  no  more  than 
a  dream.  And  I  may  have  done  him  some  good 
after  all.     Was  I  so  wrong,  Mark  ?" 

I  did  not  attemjjt,  from  any  false  kindness, 
to  compromise  the  truth.  I  said,  it  was  likely 
that  she  had  been  in  some  way  wrong,  since,  as 
she  had  herself  acknowledged,  under  similar  cir- 
cumstances, the  w  Oman  is  rarely  free  from  blame. 

"  Ay — that  is  it — that  is  my  self-reproach  and 
fear — Yet  oh,  Mark,  if  you  knew  what  it  was 
to  feel  your  youth  going — to  feel,  too,  that  you 
never  had  had  its  full  value,  that  there  had 
been  no  hajjiiiness  in  it,  and  now  it  was  going, 
gone  ;  and  if  some  one  came  and  loved  you,  or 
thought  he  did  ;  said  you  were  the  only  creature 
in  the  world  who  could  make  him  happy,  make 
him  f/ood ;  if  you  saw,  too,  that  there  was  some 
truth  in  what  he  said;  that  if  you  had  been 
younger  or  he  older,  or  if  other  things  liad  been 
more  level  between  you  both — you  might — " 

"Jean,"  I  said,  startled  by  the  exjrcssion  of 
her  eyes,  "do  you  /ove  Lord  Erlistoun?" 

"I  am  afraid  I  do." 

So  in  a  moment  the  whole  face  of  things  was 
altered  ;  so,  in  less  than  a  moment,  that  "ship'- 
which  Jean  used  to  laugh  about,  as  being  with 
most  jjcople  so  long  in  "coming  home" — went 
down,  down,  w ithout  the  flai)])ing  of  n  sail,  or 
straining  of  a  mast,  to  the  bottom  of  the  sea! 

Otherwise,  I  might  have  perceived  something 
unnatural  in  those  five  slow  words,  something 


LORD  ERLISTOUN. 


19 


not  right  in  any  car  except  the  lover's  being 
the  first  to  hear  them.  As  it  was,  I  simply 
heard  them  in  all  their  force  and  significance 
to  both  our  lives,  and,  so  recognizing  them,  en- 
tered upon  the  duty  of  mine. 

This  was  plain  as  daylight.  There  are  none 
who  feel  so  sacredly  the  absolute  right  of  love 
for  love  than  those  to  whom  fate  has  denied  its 
possession. 

Jean  came  behind  me  and  laid  her  hand  on 
my  shoulder.  She  might!  Henceforward,  I 
could  no  more  have  touched  it — except  cousinly 
or  brotherly,  than  I  could  have  put  out  my  own 
to  steal  the  crown  jewels. 

"Well,  Mark." 

"Well,  Jean." 

"I  think  'tis  time  we  said  good-night." 

"Good-night,  then."  A  look  up  into  her 
bending  face — which  was  pale,  drawn,  and  hard. 
"You  will  be  happy,  never  fear." 

"  No,  what  I  told  you  has  no  refei'cnce  to — 
to  that.  If  any  thing,  it  prevents  it ;  and  makes 
easier  what  I  did  upon  instinct,  for  his  good  as 
well  as  mine.  No,  Mark;  I  shall  always  re- 
main Jean  Dowglas." 

With  a  smile,  that  made  her  fiice  saint-like 
in  its  sadness — she  passed  out  of  my  sight. 

But  we  can  not  be  in  a  state  of  saint-hood 
always.  Certain  facts  which  four  dun  walls 
might  that  night  have  borne  witness  to,  till  such 
time  as  the  rookery  was  all  astir  in  the  weary 
dawn,  gave  me  a  clew  to  certain  other  facts, 
which  Jean's  exceeding  paleness,  next  morning, 
and  that  alone,  betrayed. 

There  was,  happily,  no  one  at  home  but  us 
three.  I  kept  my  mother  safe  out  of  the  way 
the  best  part  of  Sunday,  and  on  Monday  fore- 
noon. 

My  good  mother!  she  behaved  admirably. 
Only  a  few  nods  and  winks  in  confidence  with 
me,  and  an  affectionate  lingering  over  Jean,  in- 
dicated her  perception  of  what  was  going  on — 
or  her  prophetic  vision  at  what  was  undoubtedly 
coming.  After  the  first  expi-ession  of  pleasure, 
she  did  not  even  refer  to  Lady  Erlistoun's  visit, 
and,  moreover,  gave  me  a  hint  to  the  same  pur- 
port. 

"You  see,  she  doesn't  like  to  be  noticed. 
Very  natural — I  was  just  the  same  myself  when 
your  father  was  courting,  Mark,  my  dear." 

Monday  came.  My  mother  was  rather  fidg- 
ety— dressed  herself  directly  after  breakfast  in 
her  gayest  silk  gown,  and  strongly  objected  to 
Jean's,  of  some  soft  gray  stuff — mouse-color — 
her  usual  morning  dress. 

"Oh,  don't,  i)lease,"  Jean  answered,  in  a 
weaiy  tone,  "  what  does  it  signify  ?" 

"  Well !"  my  mother  commented,  after  watch- 
ing her  stand  arranging  the  drawing-room  flow- 
ers, her  customary  daily  duty,  and  then  sit  down 
to  work  in  the  far  window,  ' '  Well,  I  don't  tliink 
it  does  signify.  Poor  Emma  Brown  !  I  won- 
der what  she  would  have  thought  of  her  daugh- 
ter." 

And  my  mother  wiped  her  eyes,  for  all  she 
seemed  so  proud  and  pleased. 


Not  many  minutes  after,  she  rushed  back  into 
the  drawing-room,  all  in  a  flurry — Lady  Erlis- 
toun's carriage  was  coming  u])  the  avenue. 

"  Who  is  in  it  ?"  I  asked.     Jean  did  not  stir. 

"  Only  herself.  Dear  me — how  very  odd  of 
Lord  Erlistoun !" 

I  thought  dirt'erently. 

Lady  Erlistoun  was  a  very  handsome  woman. 
You  saw  at  once  where  her  son  had  inherited 
his  delicate  profile,  his  full  soft  eye.  The  like- 
ness might  have  been  stronger  when  she  was 
young,  or  would  be,  as  he  grew  old.  In  their 
world,  the  years  between  twenty-four  and  forty- 
four  eflfect  much. 

She  resembled  her  son  in  manner  too.  She 
paid  various  elegantly  implied  compliments  to 
my  mother  on  the  exceeding  beauty  of  Lyth- 
waite  Hall,  and  her  own  dcsii-e  to  see  it — then 
went  on  graciously  to  exjjlain  how  she  happened 
to  be  staying  a  night  at  the  Bishop's,  and  was 
unwilling  to  return  North  without  having  had 
the  pleasure  of  making  Mrs.  Browne's  acquaint- 
ance, and  so  on,  and  so  on — never  alluding  to 
anyparticularobjectof  her  visit,  nor  noticing,  ex- 
cept by  the  customary  acknowledgment,  the  lady 
who  was  presented  to  her  as  "  Miss  Dowglas." 

Nor  when,  after  this  formal  introduction, 
Miss  Dowglas  slowly  retreated  to  her  seat, 
could  a  less  sharp  eye  than  mine  have  detected 
the  occasional  wandering  of  Lady  Erlistoun's — 
keenly  inquisitive  as  women  are  of  women — 
anatomizing  her  at  a  glance  from  top  to  toe. 

Jean  sat  still — proudly  quiet,  unmistakably 
fair. 

"Miss  Dowglas,  will  you  take  nie  to  sec  your 
rcsery  ?  Erlistoun  has  spoken  much  of  your 
beautiful  roses."  This  was  the  first  time  she 
had  mentioned  her  son's  name. 

Jean  crossed  the  room.  Lady  Erlistoun 
watched  her — every  step,  every  trick  of  gesture 
and  action  of  hands,  as  she  showed  the  flowers 
in  the  vases  ;  listened  attentively  to  every  word 
that  fell  from  her  lips,  diopi)cd  easily  in  that 
low-toned,  pure  English — not,  alack !  as  mj 
dear,  good  Lancashire  mother  talked. 

Let  another  mother  meet  equal  justice !  Slio, 
who  had  been  used  all  her  lite  to  these  extern- 
al refinements,  valuing  them  far  beyond  tiieir 
worth,  and  yet  they  are  worth  no  little,  as  indi- 
cations of  greater  tilings — let  her  be  judged 
fairly !  Nay,  I  doubt  now,  if  even  my  mother's 
son  and  Jean's  cousin  had  a  right  to  feel  his 
heart  so  hot  within  him,  while  tiiis  noble  lady 
stood  conversing  with  and  investigating  the 
other  lady — (yes,  she  recognized  that  self-evi- 
dent fact,  I  saw) — whom  her  only  son  desire^ 
to  set  in  her  own  place,  as  Lady  Erlistoun. 

And  for  Jean '? 

Once  or  twice,  at  the  bent  side-face,  at  some 
accidental  family  tone,  which  you  can  detect 
in  most  voices,  I  could  see  Jean's  composure 
stirred ;  othonvise  she  was,  as  she  was  sure  to 
be,  simply  herself.  Her  mind  she  could  dis- 
guise— or  rather  conceal — and  in  degree  her 
feelings,  but  her  character  never.  To  attempt 
it  would  have  been  to  her  an  ignoble  hypocrisy. 


20 


LORD  ERLISTOUN. 


I  followed  them  as  they  moved  slowly  up  and 
down  the  garden,  talking  of  books,  pictures, 
continental  life — as  Jean  could  talk  if  neces- 
sarj-,  and  did  so.  In  no  way  could  I  detect  in 
her  the  least  faltering — the  least  paltering  with 
what  she  owed  to  herself,  or  to  us  Browiies. 

Us  Brownes.  Though  Lady  Erlistouu  was 
extremely  gi'acious,  tht  ugh  she  had  too  much 
self-respect  not  to  fultill  to  tlie  last  letter  what- 
ever courtesy  she  had  evidently  set  herself  to 
perform — si  ill  one  felt,  if  one  ilid  not  see,  the 
noft,  intangible,  but  inevitable  line  she  drew  be- 
tween Jean  Douglas  and  "us  Brownes." 

In  leaving,  she  held  out  her  hand — "I  trust 
we  shall  meet  again.  Miss  Dowglas?" 

"You  are  kind  to  wish  it,  Lady  Erlistoun." 

And  so  they  parted.  When,  after  seeing  her 
to  her  carriage,  I  returned  to  bid  my  mother 
and  cousin  good-by,  for  I  was  starting,  I  found 
Jean  had  gone  uj)  at  once  to  her  own  room. 

Two  days  after,  my  father  showed  me  a  letter 
from  Lord  Erlistoun,  inclosing  another  from 
his  mother,  and  from  himself  a  formal  applica- 
tion for  Miss  Dowglas's  hand. 

A  very  extraordinary  thing,  the  old  man  said 
— quite  unaccountable.  If  he  had  known  what 
was  going  on,  he  should  have  set  his  hice  against 
it — he  didn't  like  those  sort  of  man  iagcs.  But 
in  this  case,  when  the  other  party  had  shown 
such  respect  and  consideration  toward  the  dear 
girl,  and  toward  us  likewise,  when  it  must  be 
a  thoroughly  disinterested  atliiir,  for  he  remem- 
bered telling  the  young  fellow  himself,  that,  ex- 
cept her  fifty  pounds,  Jean  had  not  a  penny ; 
—why,  he  hardly  knew  what  to  say  about  it. 

I  suggested  that  none  of  us  ought  to  say  any- 
thing. Jean  was  her  own  mistress — she  must 
decide. 

"You're  right,  my  dear  boy — of  course  she 
must."  And  not  sorry  to  liave  the  responsibil- 
ity lifted  off  his  shoulders,  my  fatlier,  in  his  own 
honest  way,  wrote  to  that  effect. 

In  four  days  more  I  learned,  or  at  least  judged 
from  obvious  evidence,  that  she  had  decided  ; — 
Lord  Erlistoun  was  again  my  father's  guest. 

That  Saturd:iy  I  did  not  go  down  to  Lyth- 
waite  Hall. 

*  <ti  i|c  «  *  « 

Youth  and  love — first  love  ; — let  not  those 
who  have  passed  them  l)y  turn  back  and  deny 
cither  :  they  are  glorious  things. 

In  time  I  became  accustomed  to  the  new 
order  of  circumstances — could  go  home  and  see 
those  two  jiacing  the  garden  of  mornings,  or 
talking  of  evenings  in  the  summer  Sunday  twi- 
light, without  feeling  that  their  position  toward 
each  other  was  unnatural  or  wrong. 

This  came  easier,  j)erhai)s,  because  I  saw  Jean 
looked  hapj)y.  Not  at  first ;  but  when  she  saw 
liow  haf)i)y  her  lover  was — how  gradually,  under 
hi-r  influence,  his  whole  tone  of  mind  seemed 
changed,  Ikjw  his  character  settled  and  deep- 
ened, the  fine  qualities  in  him  strengthening  and 
the  frivolous  ones  vanishing  awjiy — tlicMi  Jean 
likewise  became  at  case  and  content.  She  evi- 
dently loved  him;   and  love  ahjiie   will  make 


people  happy — for  a  time,  not  permanently,  at 
least  not  that  sort  of  love  * 

Even  now,  sometimes  I  fancied — could  it  be 
only  fancy  ? — a  slight  shade  of  doubt — like  as 
when  she  had  asked  me  so  pitifully  that  night, 
"Was  I  so  very  wiong  ?''  We  had  never  spok- 
en together  confidentially  again  ;  indeed  it  was 
an  understood  thing  in  the  family,  that  Jean 
did  not  like  to  be  spoken  to  on  the  subject  of 
Lord  Erlistoun.  When  and  where  she  ^as  to 
be  married,  my  mother  said  she  herself  had 
not  the  least  idea — it  seemed  "rather  odd  of 
Jane." 

But,  either  from  the  inherent  weakness  of 
human  nature,  or  something  different  in  the  girl 
herself,  every  body  in  the  household  treated  her 
^\ith  great  consideration,  and  (offered  not  the 
thadow  of  a  reproach  to  the  future  Lady  Erlis- 
toun. 

I  was  not  of  them,  and  had  no  call  to  be. 
Their  Jean  I^owglas  was  not  mine — never  had 
been.  It  was  a  very  different  thing.  And  one 
day,  when  she  was  mentioning  scmcthing  she 
intended  to  alter  in  the  Lythwaitc  garden  "  next 
year"' — I  determined  to  find  out  the  truth  about 
her  engagement. 

"Next  year?— you  forget" — and  I  looked  at 
her  left  hand,  where,  as  1  had  noticed,  she  wore 
no  ring. 

With  a  rather  sad  smile  she  turned  to  me. 
"Ko,  I  did  not  forget — I  know  what  you  are 
thinking  of,  but  you  are  mistaken.  I  told  you 
the  truth  that  night." 

"That  you  should  always  remain  Jean 
Dowglas?" 

"1  believe  I  always  shall." 

I  could  not  just  then  find  vords,  or  her  man- 
ner sto])ped  me.      She  went  on— 

"Mark  I  wish  to  tell  you  one  thing — which 
is  all  that  any  body  has  a  right  to  know,  and  I 
have  said  it  from  the  first,  only  nobody  here 
seems  to  believe  it — that  Lord  Erlistoun  is  not 
engaged  to  me." 

"Jean,"  I  cried,  for  it  was  hard  to  think  her 
less  than  the  woman  I  had  always  thought  her, 
and  yet  keep  silence,  "  for  the  third  time  I  say, 
Take  care  !  You  are  attenqiting  a  dangerous 
game — you  are  plaving  with  edged  tools." 

"Ami?" 

"  Beware  !  Two  people  may  go  on  together 
easy  and  friendly  for  a  long  time  ;  but  after  love 
is  once  confessed,  or  even  susi]ectcd,  they  vivst 
be  lovers,  or  nothing.  I  speak  as  a  man.  You 
Avomen  know  not  what  you  do ;  you  are  toying 
with  burning  coals  when  you  play  fast  antl  loose 
with  a  man's  heart.  It  is  worse  than  folly — 
wickedness.  Let  there  be  no  half-measures — 
take  him,  or  reject  him — love  him,  or  let  him 
go." 

I  Pj>oke  hotlv,  out  of  the  bitterness  of  ray 
soul ;  but  she  ^^as  neither  hurt  nor  angr}'.  A 
little  reproach  there  was  in  her  eyes,  as  if  in  me, 
at  least,  she  had  looked  for  something  she  did 
not  find. 

"  Mark,  can  not  you  understand  the  possibili- 
ty of  loving  and  letting  go  ?" 


LORD  ERLISTOUN. 


21 


CHAPTER  V. 

TowAUD  the  end  of  the  season,  which  lasted 
longer  than  usual  that  year,  we  all  went  up  to 
London  for  a  month,  not  with  any  great  show, 
or  to  enter  on  expensive  gayeties — my  father, 
without  assigning  any  reason,  forbade  that.  He 
went  back  to  Liverpool,  leaving  the  family  un- 
der my  charge,  at  a  liandsome  lodging  in  Baker 
Street.  There  was  only  my  mother  and  Jean, 
Charles  (now  the  Reverend  Charles — we  were 
very  proud  of  that  "Reverend")  having  gone 
to  his  curacy  and  promised  living  ;  and  Russell 
and  Algenion  being  away,  on  a  reading  tour. 

Lord  Erlistoun  called  at  Baker  Street  almost 
daily  ;  in  the  Fark  I  had  continually  to  lift  my 
hat  to  that  handsome  carriage,  where,  placed 
beside  Lady  Erlistoun's  smiling  fashionable  face, 
was  one  I  knew ;  not  altered — no  outward  cir- 
cumstances could  alter  Jean,  except  that,  by  the 
contrast,  it  seemed  sometimes  a  little  gi-aver 
than  it  used  to  be. 

Well,  she  had  chosen  her  lot ;  she  was  old 
enough  to  know  her  own  mind,  and  to  be  the 
arbitress  of  her  own  destiny. 

Frequently,  in  my  duty  as  tempoi-ary  head 
of  the  family,  I  took  my  mother  and  cousin  to 
the  recei)tions  at  Erlistoun  House.  There,  hav- 
ing nothing  better  to  do,  I  used  to  moralize  on 
the  sort  of  life  they  led — this  noble  old  family — 
nobler  in  strict  purity  of  blood  than  many  mod- 
ern Dukes  and  Earls.  And,  theirs  being  a  type 
of  many  others,  though  of  none  other  had  I  any 
experience — I  often,  in  that  whirl  of  society, 
which  makes  a  centre  of  contemplative  solitude 
for  any  man  who  chooses,  took  notes  of  a  few 
facts  that  we  parvenus,  we  daring  swimmers, 
who  have  struggled  into  unknown  waters  by  the 
main  strength  of  our  hands,  are  rather  slow  to 
learn. 

It  seemed  to  me,  that  we  are  looked  down 
upon,  not  so  much  for  what  we  are  as  for  what 
we  assume  ;  that  the  secret  of  "  aristocratic" 
ease,  is  its  conscious  possession  of  so  much  that 
assumption  becomes  needless.  Alas,  if  we  in 
our  generation  were  as  wise  as  these  children  of 
the  world,  if  we  valued  our  sterling  ore,  our  hon- 
est manhood  and  womanhood,  as  much  as  they 
their  lovely  filagree-work  of  external  refinement, 
if  we  were  never  asliamed  of  ourselves,  I  think 
these,  our  "betters'"  in  breeding  and  education — 
if  such  they  be,  the  only  tangible  betterness  they 
j)Ossess  over  us,  would  be  shamed  into  acknowl- 
edging that  nobility  which  worth  alone  possesses 
— that  power  which  needs  no  asserting,  since  it 
" Cometh  not  from  man  but  God." 

I  know  that  night  after  night  I,  Mark  Browne, 
whose  father  was  a  clerk  and  whose  mother  was 
a  milliner,  have  gone  among  the  best  of  the 
land,  the  high,  the  wise,  and  the  fair;  the  high- 
er I  went  being  the  more  courteously  entreated  ; 
that  there,  amidst  velvets  and  diamonds,  I  have 
watched  Jean  Dowglas,  always  Jean  Dowglas, 
in  her  simple  attire  and  free,  noble  manners ; 
speaking  as  she  chose,  dressing  as  she  chose ; 
for  she  obstinately  refused  to  spend  a  shilling 


more  than  her  own  humble  income ;  different 
from  all,  fearless  of  all ;  yet  compelling  for  her- 
self and  more  than  herself,  an  invariable,  in- 
stinctive reverence. 

Let  no  one  bely  truth  by  doubting  the  power 
of  it.  In  the  foolish  strife  between  patrician 
and  plebeian,  jack-daws  and  jays,  it  is  only  our 
sham  feathers  that  make  us  despised,  and  de- 
servedly, because  all  shams  are  despicable.  We 
that  keep  our  own  honest  plumage  shall  always 
be  respected  and  respectable  birds.  I  never 
heard  one  sneer,  or  saw  one  covert  smile  against 
either  poor  Miss  Dowglas  or  "those  wealthy 
Brownes." 

This  was  one  view  of  the  subject,  but  I  noted 
another. 

Splendid  as  this  sort  of  life  was,  having  ap- 
pai-ently  no  aim  beyond  that  of  the  old  Atheni- 
ans, "to  tell  or  to  hear  some  new  thing;"  to 
seize  on  some  new  plan  of  beauty  or  delight — it 
seemed  to  me  exceedingly  sad  and  strange.  Not 
for  people  in  their  first  youth,  when  the  faculty 
of  enjoyment  Is  so  intense  that  it  must  needs 
be  right  rationally  to  enjoy- — but  afterward.  I 
dwell  not  here  on  the  dark  under-side  of  such 
a  life,  but  simply  on  its  brightness — a  glare  like 
living  in  a  house  all  glass,  with  no  shadowy  cor- 
ners in  it — or  tossing  from  wave  to  wave  with 
a  dazzling  sunshiny  sea,  without  anchorage  or 
rest. 

Sometimes  coming  from  one  of  those  assem- 
blies, where  in  the  whole  of  Erlistoun  House 
you  could  not  find  a  single  nook  to  make  a  fire- 
side of — not  a  single  bare  jeweled  neck  where 
you  could  fancy  a  child  nestling  to  and  lisping 
"  mother,"  I  would  catcli  from  Jean's  corner  in 
the  dark  carriage,  a  faint,  half-involuntary  sigh. 

No  wonder  Lord  Erlistoun  had  been  struck 
by  the  pleasantness  of  our  middle-class  "home." 
In  his  sphere,  except  as  an  order  to  the  coach- 
man, they  seemed  hardly  to  know  tlie  meaning 
of  the  word. 

Lord  Erlistoun  came  to  iis — rr  rather  to  Jean, 
as  I  have  said,  incessantly.  And  now,  catch- 
ing an  occasional  flicker  of  the  fire  that  smoul- 
dered in  his  dark  eyes — indicating  the  "  sub- 
stance underneath"  which  Jean  had  once  said 
she  should  like  to  get  at — ah,  foolish  Jean !  I 
began  to  perceive  some  reason  why,  for  his  own 
sake,  it  was  better  that  he  should  be  allowed  to 
come. 

His  mother  never  hindered  him.  All  her 
plans  for  him  seemed  to  have  vanished  in  air, 
conquered  or  made  void  by  his  own  impetuous 
will.  She  was  a  wise  woman — Lady  Erlistoun  ; 
something  better  than  a  mere  woman  of  the 
world,  too ;  for  Jean  always  said  when  ques- 
tioned that  she  "liked"  her. 

One  forenoon  Jean  and  I  sat  together,  in 
total  silence,  for  I  had  ])usiness  letters  to  attend 
to  ;  and  the  i)resent  surfeit  of  "pleasure"  made 
me  feel  business  to  be  even  a  respite  and  rest. 
Jean  was  by  the  window,  watching  the  rattling 
confusion  of  the  London  street ;  she  hardly 
looked  like  the  rose-cheeked,  active  Jean  Dowg- 
las, who  used  to  loiter  about  w  ith  me.  of  early 


LORD  ERLISTOUN. 


spring  mornings,  before  Lord  Erlistoun  had 
ever  been  seen  ol:  heard  of  at  Lythwaite  Hall. 

Those  far-away  days  were  never  mentioned 
now.  Hapjiily,  I  can  j)ut  aside  times  and  sea- 
sons, thoughts  and  feelings,  when  I  will — that 
is,  when  my  conscience  wills.  Not  destroying 
aught — nothing  save  evil  may  be  destroyed — 
but  locking  all  uj)  and  keeping  the  key.  I 
never  contest  any  thing  with  any  l)ody — I  sim- 
j)ly  resign.  Absolutely  and  utterly  ;  let  small 
rights  go  with  the  great  ones  ;  I  never  would 
claim,  or  beg,  or  struggle  for  one  iota  that  was 
not  freely  and  solely  mine. 

Thus,  Jean  and  I  rarely  talked  to  one  anoth- 
er more  than  habit  made  necessary ;  thus,  to- 
day, Iicaring  a  knock  at  the  door,  I  merely  ob- 
served that  it  was  doubtless  Lord  Erlistoun,  and 
began  putting  aside  my  jtajjers. 

"  No,  it  is  Lady  Erlistoun  ;  I  was  expecting 
her.    Mark,  do  not  go;  I  wish  you  would  not  go." 

Of  course,  I  obeyed. 

Lady  Erlistoun  had  never  before  called  at 
this  early,  familiar  hour,  rarely  alone,  as  now. 
She  sftlutcd  Jean,  French  fashion,  in  Iier  lively 
loveless  way,  thanked  her  for  admitting  herself 
so  early,  hojjcd  she  was  not  weary  with  her  ex- 
ertions last  night. 

"  But  really,  7)in  c/ure,  your  singing  is  per- 
fection. Mr.  Browne,  why  did  you  not  tell  me 
of  it  before  ?  Sucli  charniing  sim])lii-ity,  and 
yet  thorough  finish  of  style  !  Your  cousin  might 
have  studied  under  Garcia  himself." 

"I  did  for  a  little  while" — Lady  Erlistoun 
look  surprised — "At  one  time  I  meant  to  be  a 
professional  singer." 

"Oh,  indeed." 

"  It  would  not  have  been  quite  the  life  I 
would  have  chosen,  but  it  appeared  necessary  I 
should  cam  my  own  living.  I  had  only  my 
voice,  and  I  would  thankfully  have  used  it. 
However,  I  had  no  need,  and  may  not  have." 

"No,  certainly  not,"  and  the  visitor  began 
talking  graciously  to  me — would  have  talked 
me  out  of  the  room  if  she  could — for  that  was 
the  usual  result  of  her  benignity  toward  me. 
But  Jean's  directness  ended  all  dithculty. 

"I  believe,  Lady  Erlistoun,  you  h.-xd  some- 
thing to  say  to  mc?  Need  I  banish  my  cousin 
Mark,  who  is  as  good  as  a  brother  to  mc  who 
have  none  ?" 

Lady  Erlistoun  bowed  a  negative.  "  My 
communication  is  very  simjde — jrossibly  Erlis- 
toun had  t(jld  you,  his  lady  confessor?  Nay, 
he  said  his  decision  depended  on  yours.  Truly 
there  could  not  bo  a  more  devoted  worshiper 
than  my  son,  at  this  fair  shrine." 

Her  light  recognition,  implying  the  lightness 
of  the  bond — did  it  hurt  Jean  ?  However,  she 
replied,  steadily. 

"  Lord  Erlistoun  is  kind  ;  nor  could  he  leave 
any  decision  concerning  him  in  safer  hands;  but 
as  you  both  knew,  I  claim  no  right  to  influence 
his  plans." 

Lady  Erli.stoun  smiled.  "I  see.  He  must 
make  his  own  confession,  implore  his  own  ab- 
solution." 


"  I  trust  he  knows  me  better  than  to  do 
either." 

Jean's  earnestness  surprised  the  mother  into 
something  of  the  same.  She  asked  in  a  low 
tone, 

"Miss  Dowglas,  am  I  to  understand  that  no 
tie  exists  between  you  and  my  son  ?  Is  the 
engagement  broken  ?" 

"There  never  was  any  on  his  side,  as  I 
thought  he  had  long  since  told  you.  He  has 
always  been  free — perfectly  free." 

A  glitter  in  Lady  Erlistoun's  eyes — faint  re- 
flex of  that  in  her  son's  sometimes.  "Do  not 
let  us  argue  nominal  jioints  ;  I  will  tell  you 
this  plan  of  mine,  which  I  have  long  desired  to 
carry  out.  It  is,  that  my  son  and  I  should  take 
a  tour  together  through  Italy,  Greece,  and  the 
Holy  Land.  A  charming  country,  the  Holy 
Land  ?" 

This  last  remark,  addressed  to  me,  I  answered 
by  one  or  two  more,  to  give  Jean  time.  Pres- 
ently she  said, 

' '  Would  it  be  a  long  tour,  Lady  Erlistoun  ?" 

"  Only  two  or  three  years,  or  a  little  less." 

"And  when  should  you  start?" 

"Immediately." 

Jean  inquired  no  further,  but  sat  quiet.  Some- 
thing— it  could  not  be  color,  for  she  was  now  al- 
ways pale — faded  out  of  her  face,  like  the  light 
cast  071  a  window  when  the  sun  goes  down — 
faded  too  gradually  to  indicate  that  it  was  un- 
expected, or  in  any  sense  a  sudden  loss ;  still  it 
was  a  loss  ;  a  something  that  had  been,  and  was 
not. 

"Tell  me,  what  do  you  think  of  this  plan, 
Miss  Dowglas?" 

"I  think,  if  Lord  Erlistoun  wishes  it,  and 
since  his  mother  wishes  it,  he  will — there  can  be 
no  doubt  that  you  ought  to  go." 

"'Ought' — your  favorite  word.  Nay,  you 
have  ingrafted  it  on  a  certain  young  friend  of 
ours.  He  is  always  talking  of  what  he  '  ought' 
to  do.  Seriously" — and  there  was  a  kindliness 
under  her  sjjortive  air — "a  mother  owes  thanks 
for  any  good  influence  which  at  a  critical  time 
of  his  life  is  exercised  over  her  son." 

Jean's  mouth  trem>)led. 

"  1  am  really  sorry  to  take  him  from  you  for 
this  tour;  but  you  know  him  as  I  know  him, 
my  dear  Miss  Dowglas  —  a  noble  fellow  —  the 
soul  of  honor,  both  in  jirinciple  and  jiracticc  ; 
but  a  little — just  a  little  — however,  that  will 
amend." 

What  would  amend?  Jean  must  have  known, 
for  she  answered  slowly  and  firmlv — "1  believe 
it  will." 

"Once,— I  may  speak  before  your  cousin,  I 
know  ?  once  I  wished  Erlistoun  to  marry  early ; 
and  even  now,  I  thiuk"^ — lusitatiug,  with  a  j)ass- 
ing  survey  of  the  face  and  form,  less  fresh  and 
fair  than  it  was  under  the  first  maternal  inves- 
tigation in  the  Lythwaite  drawing-room — "I 
think  sometimes  if  you  would  listen  to  him — " 

"No,"  Jean  interrupted  hastily,  "he  had 
better  7iot  marry  early.  It  would  not  be  for  hi» 
good  that  he  should  marry  me." 


LORD  ERLISTOUN. 


23 


*'  Have  you  told  him  so  ?" 

"From  the  first.  But  he  will  not  hear  it. 
He  will  not  let  me  go.     He  loves  me,  «o!"." 

Oh,  what  depths  of  meaning  lay  in  that  half- 
uttered — I  know  she  did  not  mean  to  utter  it — 
that  quickly  smothered  "now." 

Lady  Erlistoun  might  have  heard  it,  or  might 
not.  i  sus])ect  she  did,  and  understood  it  like- 
wise. Taking  Jean's  hand,  she  said,  out  of  the 
heart  that  may  have  beat  truly,  or  even  passion- 
ately some  time,  jjossibly,  since  she  married  at 
twenty,  for  another  Lord  Erlistoun, 

"  I  never  wish  my  son  to  love  a  nobler  wo- 
man." 

From  that  day  I  ceased  to  avoid  Jean's  lover 
so  much  as  I  was  accustomed  to  do.  The  lover 
in  him  interested  me  in  spite  of  myself;  this 
persistent  pursuit  and  absorbing  worship  of  the 
woman  who  had  taken  liold  of  his  best  self  as 
well  as  of  his  imagination,  and  had  become  to 
him  higher  and  purer  than  a  passion,  an  ideal. 

Yet,  there  was  no  lack  of  passion  either — 
quick  jealousies,  brief  angers ;  all  that  sparkling 
and  crackling  of  a  fire  which  burns  fierce,  bright, 
and  fast ;  but  one  can  not  readily  detect  that 
while  it  is  burning. 

A  young  man,  passionately,  deeply,  and  dis- 
interestedly in  love,  has  alwaj-s  in  him  some- 
thing worthy  of  respect.  Nor,  while  women 
are  still  women,  and  to  be  loved  touches  and 
ennobles  their  nature  as  to  love  ennobles  a 
man's,  did  it  seem  any  marvel  or  shame  that 
this  devotion  of  his  was  not  altogether  wasted 
on  a  mere  idol,  marbly  cold.  For  all  Jean  said, 
I,  catching  many  a  look  and  tone  less  sedulously 
guarded  now  that  the  time  of  parting  drew  near, 
began  to  feel  sure  that,  though  she  might  test 
her  lover's  faith,  or,  for  his  own  sake,  refuse  to 
bind  him  by  a  formal  engagement — still,  soon 
or  late,  she  would  marry  Lord  Erlistoun. 

The  day  before  his  departure,  his  cab  was  at 
the  door  before  nine  o'clock.  I  heard  his  quick 
footstep  springing  up  the  stairs  and  his  familiar 
entrance  into  the  back  drawing-room,  where 
Jean  stood  watering  her  flower-stand  ;  of  all 
the  gifts  lie  would  have  loaded  her  with,  she 
refused  every  thing  but  flowers. 

"I  am  come  to  stay  all  day — may  I?" 

Jean  smiled ;  she  was  busy  over  a  sickly 
lieliotrope,  withering  in  London  air — ''I  can't 
keep  it  alive,  you  see." 

"Never  mind  it — keep  it  while  'tis  worth 
any  thing,  and  then  throw  it  away.  But  you 
did  not  answer  me.  Say,  may  I  stay  ?  or  do 
you  Avish  me  to  go  ?" 

"No!"  her  hand  slipped  into  his.  "This 
last  day?     No." 

He  had  never  spent  a  whole  day  in  Baker 
Street  before — he  soon  became  very  restless, 
pacing  uj)  and  down  the  dull  drawing-room 
suite,  which  was  all  our  establishment.  No 
charming  nooks  to  sit  and  talk  in,  as  at  Erlis- 
toun House — no  sunshiny  gardens  to  make  love 
in,  as  at  Lythwaite  Hall.  If,  indeed,  Jean  had 
allowed  any  "  love-making  ;"  which  she  did  not. 
Only  in  the  eyes  that,  however  (juiet  siic  v,  as, 


seemed  always  to  take  note  of  him  and  his  en- 
joyment, you  could  see  the  utter  unselfish  love, 
which,  abhorring  all  coquetry,  found  its  best 
demonstration  in  silence. 

At  last,  when  he  had  sat  listening  amiably  to 
my  good  mother's  long-winded  confidences  of 
our  lodging-house  woes — Jean  put  her  work 
away,  and  jiroposed  we  should  all  go  once  more 
to  our  frequent  haunt,  the  Crystal  Palace. 

"But  it  is  Thursday — one  of  the  people's 
days?" 

"I  am  one  of  the  people:  I  should  like  to 

go." 

So  she  went. 

Already  it  is  half  forgotten — soon  it  will  be- 
come a  mere  tale  to  tell  our  children — that 
People's  Palace  of  1851.  Yet,  oh!  the  beauty 
and  wonder  of  it,  when  you  came  out  of  dusty 
London,  and  stood  in  the  lofty  nave,  with  its 
captive  trees,  green  but  motionless — its  lines  of 
white  statues — its  crystal  fountain.  The  fairy- 
land it  was !  Till,  advancing,  you  caught  the 
"  hum  innumerous"  of  the  moving  crowd,  which 
thenceforward  never  left  you.  Such  a  grand, 
touching,  infinitely  human  crowd:  its  huge 
mass  giving  an  impression  of  solitude — its  con- 
fused incessant  noises  producing  the  sense  of 
silence. 

I  liked  to  be  carried  along  by  that  living  sea, 
or  else,  from  one  of  the  end  galleries,  to  watch 
it  rolling  on,  ,each  atom  bearing  its  imknown 
individual  burden  of  pleasure  or  pain.  I  liked 
to  recognize,  by  my  yearning  over  them,  that 
every  one  of  these  was  my  brother  or  my  sister 
— noble  or  ignoble,  rich  or  poor,  learned  or  U7i- 
learned,  sinful  or  innocent — no  less  my  brother 
and  my  sister ;  and  as  such,  never  to  be  over- 
looked by  me,  since  not  one  of  them  was  for- 
gotten before  God. 

Sometimes,  too,  when  the  great  organ  began 
to  sound,  I  would  try  to  solve  many  a  troubled 
problem  concerning  myself  and  these,  by  think- 
ing of  them,  not  as  now,  the  most  of  them  laden 
with  useless  sorrow,  or  tainted  with  apparently 
irredeemable  sin — but  as  that  "  great  multitude, 
which  no  man  can  number,"  which,  out  of 
all  "nations,  and  kindreds,  and  people,  and 
tongues,"  shall  yet  make  the  innumerable  com- 
pany of  the  Church  of  the  First-born. 

Feelings  like  these  dwarfed  all  minor  ones, 
and  caused  me,  when  every  hour  or  so  I  saw 
emerging  from  or  disappearing  in  the  throng 
its  only  two  units  in  which  I  had  any  personal 
interest,  to  look  on  them  much  as  I  should  have 
done  on  meeting  in  that  wondrous  company, 
where,  we  believe,  we  shall  have  lost  all  per- 
sonality that  is  not  too  pure  to  suffer  pain. 

I  think  they  enjoyed  that  day.  I  myself  can 
still  see,  as  then.  Lord  Erlistoun's  tall  head  and 
Jean's  slender,  sober-liued  figure,  moving  down 
the  long  transepts  or  loitering  in  the  gorgeous 
courts.  And  once,  fixing  a  rendezvous,  I  found 
them  sitting  among  "the  people" — who  were 
dining  out  of  big  baskets  and  filling  clumsy 
drinking-cups  at  the  crystal  fountain — nay.  Lord 
Erlistoun  rose  .-ind  took  much  pains  to  do  the 


24 


LORD  ERLISTOUN. 


tame  for  some  cross,  child-laden  woman,  whose 
sole  answer  was  a  gruff  "Thank'ee;  you  be 
civiler  tlian  most  o'  the  young  gentlemen." 

Would  he  have  done  it  of  himself?  I  thought, 
or  only  for  Jean's  smile  ?  Any  how,  it  was  bet- 
ter done  than  undone. 

Day  waned :  a  semi-twilight  shadowed  the 
courts,  while  quaint  refractions  of  sunshine 
flitted  about  tiie  many-colored  carjiets  and  mo- 
tionless banners  of  all  nations  hun^'  along  the 
aisles. 

"Let  us  all  come  and  sit  quiet  somewhere 
until  the  bell  sounds." 

They  two  went  and  sat  in  the  alcove — many 
will  remember  it,  made  of  iron-work  from  Coal- 
brookdale.  They  talked  earnestly — of  wliat  I 
did  not  hear,  nor  ever  wish  to  know.  Let  no  one 
ever  desire  to  break  the  sanctity  of  anotlier's  past. 

I  can  think  of  Jean,  even  now,  as  sitting 
there,  her  hands  crossed,  her  eyes  declined  on 
her  lap,  listening  ;  or  speaking,  with  sweet  eyes 
lingering  on  his  face — a  face  beautiful  in  itself, 
and  beautiful  to  her.  Heaven  knows.  I  will  nut 
deny  it,  or  him.  God  love  him  !  he  was  Jean's 
first  love. 

The  gong  of  dismissal  sounded.  It  made 
her  start- — she  was  often  nervous  now.  That 
dull,  heavy  boom  seemed  to  pierce  her  through 
and  through  ;  when  she  rose  from  her  chair  she 
could  hardly  stand. 

"  She  is  worn  out,"  I  said;  "we  must  take 
her  home." 

"Yes,  yes.  Only  five  minutes  more,  for  one 
last  walk  through  the  beautiful  nave — can  you, 
Jean  ?' 

She  smiled  assent. 

"So,  leaning  on  Lord  Erlistoun's  arm,  she 
wnlked  slowly  through,  till  at  the  door  she 
6topi)cd,  and  turned  to  look  back. 

Last  year,  crossing  to  Kensington  Gardens, 
I,  too,  stopped,  as  it  might  be,  on  that  very  spot, 
and  called  to  mind  how  we  three  stood  and 
looked  back  on  that  fairy  palace,  with  all  its 
glory  of  color,  form,  and  sound.  What  was 
left  of  it?  Nothing,  save  (and  I  tliought,  liap]>y 
for  those  to  whom  this  is  left,  after  tlie  clearing 
away  of  their  youth's  crystal  palaces !)  free  space, 
light,  and  air;  where  tiie  sun  may  still  shine 
and  tiie  grass  grow. 

Coming  home,  Loi'd  Erlistoun  found  a  note 
from  his  mother,  which,  with  a  gesture  of  an- 
noyance, he  passed  on  to  Jean. 

"  iJut  I  will  not  go — I  wonder  she  can  ex- 
pect it.  This,  my  last  night,  to  be  wasted  at 
the  Bishop's  ;  she  knows  I  hate  going  there. 
Jean,  if  vou  knew" —     lie  stopped. 

"I  know  one  thing,"  said  Jean's  persuasive 
Toicc,  "  that  you  will  not  refuse  your  mother — 
it  is  her  rif;lit." 

"And  iiavc  you  no  right?  Not  even  this 
last  night!  you  arc  cruel." 

"Am  I?"  Jean  took  out  her  watch;  her 
hand  sliook  much,  but  she  sjiokc  tlccisively — 
"  Vou  will  have  time  enough  fur  both.  See — 
one,  two,  three  hours  longer  with  us,  then  you 
ghall  go." 


A  few  more  restless  reproaches,  such  as  she 
often  had  to  bear  and  to  smile  down,  as  now. 
But  her  smile  always  calmed  him,  and — another 
of  those  facts  which  sometimes  set  me  pondering 
as  to  the  future — her  will  always  ridcd. 

A  quiet  hour  or  so  in  the  slowly-darkening 
drawing-room,  I  read  at  the  window  for  as  long 
as  I  could,  my  mother  dozed  on  the  sofa.  Lord 
Erlistoun  jirotestcd  against  lights ;  .so  we  had 
only  the  fantastic  glimmer  of  the  street  gas- 
lamp  dancing  on  the  wall.  By  it  I  could  just 
trace  Jean's  motionless  figure  leaning  baik  in 
tlic  arm-cluiir — anotlier  figure  sitting  beside  her 
— lastly  on  the  he;;rth-n;g  at  her  feet.  One 
would  have  smiled,  remembered  the  dignified 
behavior  of  Loid  Ei  listuun  at  Lythwaite  ;  but  it 
was  a  matter  beyond  smiling  at,  now. 

"  Will  nobody  talk  ?"  said  Jean,  after  .i  long 
silence. 

Some  desultory  conversation  ensued,  about 
people  and  bocks,  and  then  his  thoughts  de- 
serting him,  or  assuming  lover-like  forms  that 
were  necessarily  limited  in  ex]iression,  tliough 
on  the  whole  be  observed  little  restraint  in  the 
presence  of  my  mother  and  me — Lord  Erlistoun 
took  to  rej)eating  joetry. 

What  a  voice  it  was- — rich,  deep,  and  low ; 
how — stealing  through  the  dark,  with  intention- 
al emphasis,  it  must  have  gone  direct  to  any 
heart  tliat  was  young  and  loved  him.  Even 
me  it  touched  in  a  measure ;  some  fragments 
in  particular ;  because  I  afterward  found  them 
in  a  book,  and  because  of  the  deeper  meaning 
they  caiTied  than  I  then  wist  of.  It  was  a  love 
poem,  of  course. 

"In  many  mortal  forms  T  rashly  Fought 
Tlio  shadow  of  this  idol  of  my  thought; 
And  some  wtro  fair,  but  beauty  dies  away, 
Others  were  wise,  but  honeyed  words  betray; 
And  one  was  true — .Vh,  why  not  true  to  me! 
Till,  like  a  hunted  deer  that  could  not  Hee — "' 

The  young  man  goes  rambling  on,  in  language 
intoxicating  with  its  loveliness,  half  earthly,  half 
heavenly — till  be  finds  the  one — the  last — and 
thus  describes  licr : 

"  Soft  as  an  incarnation  of  the  sun 
When  light  is  changed  to  day,  this  glorious  one 
Floated  into  the  cavern  where  1  lay, 
And  called  my  spirit,  and  the  dreaming  clay 
■\Vas  lifted  by  the  thing  that  dreamed  below 
As  smoke  by  fire,  and  in  her  beauty's  glow 
1  stood,  and  felt  the  dawn  of  my  long  night 
Was  penetrating  me  with  living  light; 
I  knew  it  was  the  vision  vailed  from  mc 
So  many  years;  that  it  was — "' 

"Emily;"  supplied  Jean,  with  a  little  soft 
laugh,  "  why  did  yon  jiausc  over  it?  'tis  one  of 
tlie  sweetest  names  I  know." 

"I  hate  it." 

Lord  Erlistoun  started  to  his  feet  and  would 
say  no  more  j>o('try.  Certainh',  it  had  struck 
me  as  odd  that  a  lover  on  the  eve  of  parting 
should  expend  his  feelin;;s  in  another  man's 
words,  or  indeed  in  any  words  at  all.  But  love 
fakes  so  many  forms,  that  what  seems  false  to 
one  nature  may  be  cssentiiilly  true  in  another. 

He  continued  his  old  restless  walk  \\\>  and 


LORD  ERLISTOUN. 


25 


down  the  room  ,•  Jean  sighed,  and  then  went 
and  opened  the  piano. 

"  Do  you  remember  this,  Mark?  you  used  to 
like  it,  though  you  do  not  care  for  music." 

Not  every  body's  music ;  but  this,  it  was  a 
"song  without  words" — Mendelssohn's.  She 
had  played  it  with  the  sunbeam  dancing  on  her 
head  that  May  forenoon  at  Lythwaite.  Before 
many  bars  it  was  broken  in  upon  by  Lord  Erlis- 
toun. 

"'Tis  too  tame,  too  quiet.  Jean,  play  some- 
thing /  like,  or  rather  do  not  play  at  all. 
Hark  I" — the  church  clock  struck — "  only  one 
hour  now." 

lie  seized  her  left  hand,  the  other  moving 
vaguely  over  the  treble  keys,  and  began  talking 
to  her  in  a  low  voice,  as  lovers  do. 

I  went  back  to  the  window.  In  the  middle 
of  the  street,  singing  in  a  high  voice,  cracked 
now,  yet  not  without  the  ghost  of  former  tune- 
fulness— stood  a  woman  with  a  baby  in  her 
arms,  and  a  boy  at  her  side.  Clustering  round 
the  gin-palace,  farther  down,  was  a  knot  of  still 
wretL-heder  women — some  with  children  like- 
wise— dragging  in  or  out  refi-actory  husbands — 
or  worse  ;  while  appearing  and  disappearing 
under  the  doctor's  red  lamp  opposite  our  door, 
passed  score  after  score  of  all  sorts  of  faces — 
hardly  one  in  the  whole  number  a  contented  or 
good  face — which  make  up  the  phantasmagoria 
of  London  streets  of  a  night. 

Without,  such  sights  as  these ;  within,  those 
two,  repeating  delicious  poetry  and  whispering 
together  over  soft  music !  God  help  us  !  I  said 
to  myself,  is  there  nothing  in  the  world  but  love, 
nothing  to  live  for  but  happiness? 

Oh,  Jean,  I  was  hard  to  thee !  Hard  even 
at  that  moment — and  blind,  as  we  almost  al- 
ways are,  when  we  severely  judge.  I  caught 
Lord  Erlistoun's  voice,  so  impetuous  that  it  was 
impossible  not  to  hear. 

"At  I'ast  you  will  write  to  me?  you  will 
not  forbid  my  writing  to  you  as  often  as  I 
please  ■;"' 

"  Did  I  not  promise,  long  ago  ?" 

"  I  know,  you  have  made  me  every  promise 
I  could  desire,  though  you  will  take  none  from 
me.  Once,  again,  wiiy  will  you  not?  Do  you 
think  me  changeable?" 

Jean  repeated,  half-jesting,  half-sadly,  the 
lines: 

•'  In  many  forms  I  rashly  sought 
The  sliadow  of  this  idol  of  my  thought." 

"I  was  not  the  first  of  these,  you  know." 

"But  you  will  be  the  last.  Oh,  Jean,  do 
you  not  believe  I  love  you?" 

"  I  do— yet— " 

"  Stop,  I  know  what  is  coming — the  old  ar- 
gument ;  that  your  experience  and  mine  have 
been  so  different ;  that  you  have  lived  for  work 
and  I  for  enjoyment ;  that  my  youth  is  but  just 
begun  ;  while  yours; — " 

"  You  brought  me  back  my  youth,"  she  mur- 
mured.     Oh,  yes — I  have  been  very  happy  I" 

"  Have  been  1  'Tis  always  hnvr  hcpn  ,•"  and 
he  said  something  more,  rapidly — incoherent- 


ly— ^his  manner  being  fierce  and  tender,  by 
turns. 

"No,"  Jean  replied,  "it  is  not  these  things 
I  am  afraid  of.  External  differences  are  no- 
thing with  union  at  the  core — love  and  trust, 
and — faithfulness." 

"Enough;  I  know,"  he  said,  bitterly.  "I 
am  not  one  of  your  'faithful'  temperaments. 
You  judge  me — most  wise  woman  !  by  the  tinge 
of  my  skin,  and  the  color  of  my  hair." 

"Lord  Erlistoun!" 

"No — I  deny  it  not,  I  am  a  very  different 
J)erson  from  your  cousin  Mark  there.  I  am 
southern  to  the  very  core :  my  blood  seems  to 
run  like  fire  sometimes — and  you  set  it  alight 
— you  stand  by  and  watch  it  burnin-^.  Jean, 
you  do  not  love  me,  you  never  loved  me  I" 

Jean  did  not  answer  for  a  minute,  "Then 
you  think  when  I  promised — you  know  what 
— I  was  false  to  myself,  and  w^,rsc,  to  you, 
after  the  crudest  falseness  any  woman  can 
show  ?" 

"Forgive  me — oh,  forgive  me!  I  love  you 
— yet  I  am  always  grieving  you." 

Again  Jean  paused  before  replying.  "1  tnke 
the  grief  with  the  love,  and  would  have  done 
the  same,  twenty  times  over,  because  I  have 
hope  in  you." 

She  did  not  say  "  faith  ;"  faith,  the  very  root 
and  foundation  of  love ;  but  he  never  noticed 
that.  "Yes,"  Jean  repeated,  "great  hope. 
That  is  the  way  with  us  women,  we  care  less 
for  your  loving  than  for  what  you  are ;  we  can 
lie  content  if,  quite  apart  from  us,  we  see  you 
every  thing  that  you  ought  to  be.     I  could.' 

"Jean,  I  will  be  any  thing,  every  thing,  if 
you  will  be  my  Jean." 

He  tried  to  clasp  her,  apparently — for  she 
shrank  visibly  from  him. 

"  Oh,  do  not !"  in  an  accent  of  pain,  "I  feel 
as  if  it  were  not  right;  I  could  not  unless" — 
she  drop])ed  her  face  u])on  her  hands,  "I  know 
Me  shall  never  be  more  to  one  anotlier  than  we 
are  now." 

What  he  replied  I  can  not  say  ;  nor  what  far- 
ther last  words  passed  between  them.  Let  all 
rest  sacred,  as  last  words  should. 

When  Jean  called  me  from  my  room  to  bid 
him  good-by.  Lord  Erlistoun  was  sttiuding  by 
the  now  lit  lamp,  exceedingly  pale  ;  l)utj)roud; 
more  like  the  Lord  Erlistoun  of  Lythwaite  times 
than  as  we  knew  him  now.  My  nuither,  out  of 
her  dear  warm  heart,  extended  her  hand  with  a 
good  wish  and  blessing ;  when,  very  much  to 
her  surprise,  he  lifted  the  hand  and  kissed  it. 

"  Tiiank  you  all  for  all  your  kin(hicss  ;  1  ho])e 
to  return  it  one  day,  two  years  hence.  Two 
years,  and  remember" — he  turned  to  me ;  whetlier 
he  liked  me  or  not  I  think  he  trusted  me — "  how- 
ever free  she  holds  me,  I  hold  Jean  Dowglas  as 
my  wife.  Take  care  of  her,  until  she  is  my 
wife.  Good-bj'." 
*  >i:  Jtf  m  *  * 

He  had  not  been  gone  a  month  when  there 
befell  our  family  what,  as  I  am  not  writing  our 
history  but  tluit  of  Lord  Erlistoun,  I  will  stato 


26 


LORD  ERLISTOUN. 


briefly — as  things  fatal  for  life,  more  terrible 
than  death,  often  are  stated. 

A  defalcation,  in  its  cliaracter  worse  than 
mere  recklessness,  and  involving  years  of  long 
concealed,  systematic  fraud,  was  hrouglit  to 
light  concerning  a  partner  in  our  firm  of  Browne 
and  Co.  His  name  matters  not,  it  is  now  blot- 
ted out  from  the  face  of  the  earth  ;  the  wretched 
forger  destroyed  himself. 

My  father  did  the  only  thing  an  honest  man 
could  do  ;  sacrificed  his  wealth  to  his  integrity. 
He  jjaid  his  liabilities  to  the  last  penny — then 
laid  down  his  head  in  j)eace,  and  died.  The 
flight  of  his  coffin  borne  out  through  its  gates,  one 
snowy  winter  day,  is  almost  my  last  remem- 
brance of  Lythwaite  Hall. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


It  was  a  little  first-floor  lodging,  sunshiny, 
neat,  and  clean.  Nothing  remain:;  of  it  now  : 
a  month  since,  in  a  new  line  of  railway,  I  dashed 
through  what  had  been  the  parlor,  with  its  two 
balconied  windows,  each  adorned  with  three  pots 
of  evei-green  ;  over  which,  on  fine  evenintis,  a 
broad  ray  of  sunshine  came  across  the  head  of 
the  sofa.  "  See  that  the  house  faces  westward," 
had  been  Jean's  private  orders,  "  that  she  may 
always  have  the  sun  at  the  end  of  the  day." 
Blank  now  looked  those  walls,  cut  out  of  the 
line  of  Pleasant-row — yet  I  thought  how  many 
a  quiet  hour  we  had  passed  within  them,  and 
what  a  harlioruf  rest  the  place  had  been  for  my 
mother  and  Jean ! 

After  the  general  break-up,  we  thus  disposed 
of  the  family.  Charles  took  Russell  with  him 
to  his  curacy.  I  being  otlered  a  situation  (  f 
trust  in  a  London  house,  stijiulated  for  a  small 
clerkship  there,  where  Algernon  might  begin 
the  world.  Poor  lads  I  a  far  different  begin- 
ning of  the  world  to  any  they  had  looked  for  ; 
but  the  stout  honest  workingman's  blood  in  them 
was  stronger  than  tlicir  luxurious  rearing  ;  after 
the  wreck  they  jiluuged  in,  fearless,  and  jire- 
pared  to  strike  out  for  the  land  ! 

"Now — about  my  mother?" 

"Your  mother  is  mine,  Mark,"  said  Jean, 
determinedly. 

And  so,  from  that  morning,  when  she  had 
dressed  her  tenderly  in  that  cruel  garb  which 
custom  C(^mpels  (I  never  thought  how  cruel  it 
was  till  then),  had  brought  her  down  stairs  and 
set  her  in  the  midst  of  her  children,  a  widow, 
•with  her  gay  gowns  laid  aside  forever,  her  life's 
story  closed,  and  henceforth  bound  to  receive 
from  every  one  of  us  double  honor,  and  double 
care — from  that  hour  Jean  took  altogether  upon 
herself  the  jilacc  and  duties  of  my  mother's  own 
daughter.  • 

They  luid  not  always  agreed  together  before, 
being  in  most  things  so  opjjositc ;  but  now  my 
motlier's  every  weakness  was  held  sacred,  cveiy 
failing  gently  borne  with  ;  all  patience  accord- 
ed to  her  fretfulncss;  all  trouble  silently  taken 
out  of  her  hands.     For,  from  the  lime  of  her 


widowhood,  she  grew  suddenly  old  ;  lier  energy 
and  activity  forsook  her ;  she  leaned  upon  all  of 
us  in  turn,  for  every  thing,  and  upon  no  one  so 
much  as  Jean  Dowglas. 

So  I  brought  them  with  me  to  London,  set- 
tled them  in  Pleasant-row,  and  left  them  to 
comfort  one  another,  as  women  can.  They  had 
Algernon,  too,  of  evenings ;  but  I  did  not  lire 
with  them  myself,  for  many  reasons. 

My  mother's  daughter!  So  she  was,  and  I 
liad  sense  enough  to  be  thankftd,  though  the 
fact  had  its  painfid  jihase  at  times.  But  no 
man  ought  to  be  a  hypocrite  in  the  smallest 
word.  I  do  not  remember  ever  once  calling 
Jean  Dowglas  my  "sister" 

About  Lord  Erlistoun.  During  our  time  of 
trouble  she  never  mentioned  his  name ;  it  did 
not  seem  to  be  one  of  those  names  that  one  does 
turn  to  in  tinu>  of  trouble.  But  after  we  were 
settled,  I  brought  to  her,  redirected  from  l^yth- 
waite  Hall,  a  foreign  letter:  I  might  have 
known  who  it  came  from  by  Jean's  eyes — she 
was  no  hyjiocrite  neither. 

"  Does  he  know  what  has  happened  ?" — For 
I  wisheil^o  learn. 

"1  wrote  and  told  him.  At  least  as  much 
as  was  necessarv,  as  much  as  concerned  my- 
self." 

"And  what  does  he  say?" 

Jean's  vivid  blush  answered. 

"1  see,  of  course.  Cousin,"  I  said,  feeling 
that  some  one  of  us  ought  to  say  it,  "you  must 
decide  for  yourself  without  reference  to  my  moth- 
er. "We  have  no  claim  upon  you  ;  Lord  Erlis- 
toun has." 

"  I  know  he  has." 

"Then  go,  go  and  be  happy." 

She  shook  her  head,  "Mark,  that  is  not  like 
you.  How  could  one  be  happy  with  any  thing 
left  undone?  Besides" — she  stopped  short  here, 
and  rcccnimenccd  the  sentence — "  I  do  but  keep 
to  my  first  resolve,  made  not  unadvisedly,  nor 
in  haste.  I  think  it  was  scarcely  wrong,  or 
hard." 

"Hard!  the  love  that  must  last  a  lifetime 
may  surely  wait  two  years." 

I  spoke  bitterly,  mindful  of  the  scores  of  young 
lovers  whose  "small  weak  fiame"  can  not  en- 
dure from  month  to  month  even  ;  who  believe 
the  greatest  misery  on  earth  is  that  "wailing!" 
Fools  and  faint-hearted  !  ^^'hat  is  a  man's  love 
worth  if  he  can  not  love  on  to  eternity  ? 

As  for  a  wonnin's — I  glanced  at  Jean.  Her 
fingers  were  tightly  folded  over  the  letter  ;  her 
mouth,  though  it  smiled,  was  somewhat  drawn. 
It  had  not,  and  never  had  had,  that  look  of  rest 
which  I  used  to  fancy  the  kiss  of  betrothal  ouglit 
to  leave  behind  ;  sacred  and  satisfied  ;  never  to 
be  obliterated  by  any  after  care. 

"  Cousin,  if  you  ])lease,  wc  will  not  discuss 
this  suV)ject." 

1  obeyed  her  ;  delivering  in  silence  any  letter 
that  came  afterward  ;  they  being,  from  Jean's 
uncertainty  of  residence,  always  addressed  to 
my  care.  Sometimes  we  heard  nothing  what- 
ever of  their  contents.     Sometimes,  of  Sunday 


LORD  ERLISTOUN. 


27 


afternoons,  my  mother,  who  was  never  denied 
any  thing  now,  would  beg  for  a  bit  out  of  Lord 
Erlistoun's  descriptions  of  Vienna  and  Constan- 
tinople ;  of  desert  marches,  camels,  and  Arabs ; 
the  Pyramids  and  the  Nile  ;  Easter  in  the 
Church  of  the  Nativity  ;  moonlight  nights  under 
the  cedars  of  Lebanon — a  life,  such  as  a  young 
man  glories  in ;  full  of  incessant  excitement, 
beauty,  and  change.  Change,  especially,  seemed 
to  be  the  necessary  element,  the  craving  delight 
of  this  young  man's  existence. 

"He  seems  very  happy,"  my  mother  would 
often  say.  "  Eh  dear !  it's  a  great  thing  to  be 
happy." 

"  Yes — yes,"  and  Jean's  happiness,  which  evi- 
dently lay  in  these  letters  or  fra;^ients  of  let- 
ters, which  she  did  7tot  read — would  follow  her 
for  days  and  days,  like  an  invisible  atmosphere  ; 
making  a  Santa  Sophia  out  of  the  small  parlor 
at  Pleasant  liow,  and  briglitcuing  the  dull  sub- 
urban streets  she  paced  along  into  a  veritable 
Holy  Land. 

I  suppose  most  people  have,  some  time  or 
other,  had  such  illusions. 

They  are  most  vivid,  if  not  most  jiatural,  in 
a  colorless  life,  such  as  now  was  hers.  In  vain 
she  said  that  she  was  "used  to  it ;"  that  it  was 
only  going  back  to  the  straitened  ways  of  her 
early  youth ;  it  must  have  been  a  change.  Even 
to  my  mother,  far  less  sensitive  in  tastes  or  feel- 
ings— the  task  of  making  sixpence  do  the  work 
of  a  shilling,  after  half  a  lifetime  of  plenty, 
came  bitterly  hard.  Gradually  I  discovered 
that  the  whole  cares  of  the  dwindled  household 
had  fallen  into  Jean's  liands. 

It  used  to  cost  me  many  a  pang  then  ;  it 
does  not  now.  I  glory  in  thinking  of  her  in 
her  well-worn  dresses  and  neacly  mended  gloves, 
while,  somehow  or  other,  my  mother's  were 
always  fresh  and  new ;  in  remembering  the 
miles  she  would  trudge  down  muddy  London 
streets — ^"  Oh,  we  can  do,  Mark;  we're  young 
and  strong ;  but  we  must  take  your  mother  a 
drive  somewhere,  soon  ;"  in  calling  to  mind  her 
thoughtful  ways  as  she  followed  me  to  the  hall- 
door  for  some  private  word  or  two,  "  I  did  not 
like  to  say  any  thing  up  stairs,  it  might  trouble 
your  mother." 

My  mother,  711  ine.  May  Heaven  forget  me 
when  I  forget  thee,  Jean  Dowglas ! 

Looking  back,  one  often-  Avonders  to  see 
through  what  strangely  opposing  circumstances 
one  has  been  happy ;  positively  happy.  We 
were  so,  I  think,  that  year ;  our  change  and 
loss  were  both  sudden,  not  lingering;  the  first 
left  behind  it  neither  disgrace  nor  anxiety ;  it 
was  all  over  and  done  with ;  we  started  anew 
without  a  single  debt  or  fear.  And  for  the  death 
which  ended  worthily  an  honored  and  beloved 
life,  why,  there  was  peace  in  that  too.  I  have 
at  times  envied  my  dear  father  the  smile  witii 
which  that  Saturday  night  he  turned  himself 
and  closed  his  eyes  to  his  last  rest.  "  Twelve 
o'clock,  is  it,  Susan,  lass  ?  Well,  I  ha'  done  all 
my  work,  and  now  it's  Sunday." 

And  now  I  must  say  a  word  about  myself; 


though  the  most  of  this  history  belongs  to  a 
portion  of  me  as  distinct  from  my  everyday 
self,  which  men  generally  knew,  as  Liverpool 
was  from  Lythwaite  Hall,  or  Mincing  Lane  from 
Pleasant  How. 

My  father,  as  I  have  indicated,  was  a  man 
of  ever-active  energy  and  rough  hewn,  but  re- 
markable power.  To  the  last  he  held  every 
thing  in  his  own  hands,  and  did  every  thing 
himself  that  was  possible  for  him  to  do.  Even 
I,  his  son,  became  at  times  a  mere  supernumer- 
ary. Until  his  death,  my  work  had  been  al- 
most that  of  a  machine  ;  I  had  never  had  any 
responsibility ;  afterward  the  sense  of  it,  doubled 
by  its  exceeding  newness,  by  my  peculiar  tcm- 
pci'ament,  and  by  other  facts  which  it  is  need- 
less now  to  jiarticularizc,  yet  which  passively, 
if  not  actively,  will  always  influence  a  man's 
life,  never  left  me  for  a  moment. 

After  a  time  Jean  found  it  out ;  I  mean  this 
grinding  sense  of  responsibility,  this  terror  of 
the  future,  balanced  between  health  on  the  one 
side — I  was,  or  looked,  not  strong — and  pounds 
shillings  and  pence  in  tlie  other,  which  by  me 
must  be  earned.  When  pressed  I  made  this 
confession. 

"I  see.  I  had  not  thought  of  that  before. 
Poor  Mark!  we  must  take  better  care  of  you. 
I  am  glad  you  told  me." 

A  few  weeks  after,  coming  in  unexpectedly 
one  evening,  my  mother  met  me  with — "Where 
do  you  think  Jean  has  gone  ?'' 

It  might  have  been  across  the  seas,  for  the 
start  it  gave  me,  but  it  was  only  to  Belgravia — 
that  region,  familiar  once,  foreign  as  Africa  to 
us  now.  A  host  of  imaginations  took  wing  at 
once,  but  I  only  said, 

"  She  should  not  have  gone  alone.  Who  did 
she  want  to  see  ?" 

"  She  wouldn't  tell ;  she  said  I  must  wait  till 
she  came  home.  Ah,  here  she  is  I  Well,  my 
bonny  Jean." 

"13onny"  was  hardly  the  word,  and  yet  she 
looked  strangely  lovely.  The  old  sparkle  of  the 
eye,  the  old  stateliness  of  carriage,  which  among 
ever  such  splendors  made  her  seem  at  once  fa- 
miliar with  and  superior  to  them  all.  She  kiss- 
ed my  mother  and  then  went  away  to  take  her 
bonnet  off",  saying  we  should  hear  all  in  a  min- 
ute. But  it  was  several  miiuites ;  the  unwont- 
ed flus;h  had  faded  ;  she  was  our  own  quiet 
Jean. 

"Yes,  Mark,  I  have  done  a  daring  thing — 
entered  on  an  engagement  without  your  knowl- 
edge, advice,  or  consent.      Look  here." 

She  showed  me  an  advertisement  for  "A 
first-class  singing  mistress.  No  })rofcssional  or 
operatic  artistes  need  apply." 
I  "  Do  you  notice  ?  a  sini^ing  7«i.s7?rs.>;.  They 
are  afraid  of  a  master  for  her,  poor  thing !  She 
is  hedged  in  by  propriety  on  everj-  side  ;  she  is 
an  heiress  ;  actually  our  own  poor  little  heiress, 
Lady  Emily  Gage.'"' 

j      The    Cathedral,   Lythwaite    Hall,   and   that 
I  "night  of  June"  in  tlie  Sunday  meadows,  how 
they  came  back  ;o  uie  I 


2« 


LORD  ERLISTOUN. 


*'Lady  Emily  Gage— how  strange!" 
"Not  so  strange,  it's  being  herself,  as  that 
she  should  have  lemembered  me.      She  did." 
"At  the  Cathedral?" 

"Ko — but  last  year — at  Erlistoun  House. 
If  you  recollect,  they  knew  her.'' 

This,  then,  caused  Jean's  brightness  of  mien  ; 
this  sunny  rift  out  last  year's  history,  wliich,  but 
for  the  foreign  letters,  often  seemed  no  more 
tlian  a  dream,  to  us  at  least.  Such  security 
must  end. 

"Jean,"  I  said,  "you  should  have  told  me 
before  you  took  such  a  step  as  this.  For  you  to 
teacli  at  all  is,  to  my  mind,  ill-advised — to  be- 
come governess,  or  singing-governess,  or  what- 
ever you  call  it,  to  the  Bishop's  niece,  strikes 
me  as  simply  impossible." 

"  Hardly ;  since  I  have  already  promised." 
Here  my  mother,  catching  my  meaning,  fol- 
lowed it  up  loudly. 

"My  dear,  what  have  you  gone  and  done! 
what  will  Lord  Erlistoun  say?" 
Jean  was  silent. 

"If  you  had  been  Miss  Anybody,  it  would 
have  been  hard  enough,  my  poor  child !  But 
for  you    to    turn    singing-mistress — ycu,  Jean 

Dow  glas,  that  is  to  be  Lady " 

"  Uh  don't — don't."  Her  expression  of  acute 
pain  silenced  even  my  mother.  "  Let  me  say 
a  word,  and  then  you  and  Mark  must  let  me 
alone.  Being  Jean  Dowglas,  I  must  act  as 
Jean  Dowglas,  w  ithout  reference  to  any  bod}-.  I 
believe — "  her  voice  shook  a  little,  "  no  man 
would  tliink  the  less  of  one  he  cared  for,  for 
doing  any  thing  or  every  tiling  that  she  thought 
right.  It  is  rigiit  fur  me  to  help  to  earn  money  ; 
I  can  do  it,  and  wisii  to  do  it ;  this  is  the  easiest 
way.  Besides,  I  have  promised.  Don't  let  us 
talk  any  more." 

She  then  gave  us  a  detailed  account  of  her 
proceedings,  and  described  Lady  Emily,  now 
nearly  grown  uj),  and  one  of  the  loveliest  creat- 
ures ever  seen. 

"  There  is  a  curious  simj)licity  about  her,  too, 
like  a  phim  witii  the  bloom  on  it.  She  said  she 
knew  my  face  quite  well,  and  used  to  creep  into 
dark  corners  to  listen  to  my  singing.  After- 
ward, she  had  often  wondered  who  I  was,  and 
what  iiad  become  of  me." 

"What,  doesn't  she  know?"  broke  out  my 
mother. 

"  You  forget,  nobody  knows,  nor  must  know. 
It  is  much  better  thus,  and  much  easier  for  me." 
It  stung  me,  the  idea  of  her  going  among 
these  jtcojile  with  "nobody  knowing."  The 
whole  position  of  matters  indicated  something 
jarring — sonietliing  not  right.  True,  Jean's 
own  will  had  g(ncriied  every  thing — there  was, 
strictly  8j)oaking,  none  to  l)lame  ;  yet  I  was  ir- 
ritated and  sore.  'J'ho  feeling  did  not  wear  off 
for  some  time. 

Yet  good  rather  than  evil  apparently  accrued 
from  tills  jilan.  Money  was  the  least  thing 
Jean  gained.  Slie  soon  taught  out  of  love,  also 
— which  is  a  teaching  that  makes  happy.  It 
filled  up  a  ■:crtain  blank  in  her  life  that  I  had 


already  begun  to  notice  between  the  somewhat 
irregular  and  lengthening  spaces,  when  those 
foreign  letters  came ;  and  supplied  the  lack  of 
many  wants  that  in  our  narrow  humdrum  way 
of  existence  a  young  woman,  constantly  occupied 
in  tending  an  old  and  friendless  one,  was  sure 
to  feel — refinement,  cheerful  sympathy,  associa- 
tions with  those  after  her  own  kind. 

These  exj>laiiations  I  used  to  make,  regard- 
ing her  ardent  delight  in  this  new  interest,  for- 
eign to  us  and  ours.  But  mine  was  an  extern- 
al judgment,  as  those  of  mankind  often  are. 

One  Sunday  Lady  Emily  alighted,  like  a  bird 
of  Paradise,  on  the  mundane  regions  of  I'leas- 
ant  Ilow ;  and  then  I  found  out,  or  thought  I 
had,  a  good  deal. 

"  Jean,  that  '  child,'  as  you  call  her,  is  just 
like  a  little  lover  to  you." 

Jean  smiled — "Well,  am  I  not  better,  cer- 
tainly safer  than  a  lover  to  her?  Don't  laugh, 
Mark.  Girls  often  choose  their  '  first  loves' 
among  women — I  did  myself.  What  do  you 
think  of  Lady  Emily  ?     Is  she  altered  ?" 

"I  forget  what  she  used  to  be;  but  I  think 
she  is  growing  very  like  i/ou." 

Jean  laughed  in  merry  incredulity.  "What, 
dark  and  fair,  thin  and  soft-rounded,  seventeen, 
and  nearly  twenty-nine.  How  old  I  am  grow- 
ing !"  She  turned  grave  for  a  moment,  then 
went  back  to  the  argument  in  question. 

Yet  my  observation  had  a  truth  in  it.  'ihat 
similarity,  either  natural  or  acquired,  which  I 
have  before  noticed  is  often  discernible  in  peo- 
ple attracted  to  one  another,  already  showed  it- 
self between  these  two.  The  stronger  nature 
of  course  made  the  impression ;  in  twenty  dif- 
ferent ways  I  could  trace  in  Lady  Emily  the  in- 
fluence of  Jean. 

I  remarked  one  day,  "  that  she  seemed  to  go 
to  Pleasant  Kow  a  good  deal." 

"  Yes,  they  trust  her  with  me,  and  she  likes 
coming." 

"Truly,  I  think  she  would  come  to  Kcwgate 
if  you  were  there." 

"  I  know  slie  would,"  Jean  answered,  with  a 
soft,  grateful  tenderness  in  her  tone.  "Mark. 
I  am  neither  Quixotic  nor  romantic — now  ;  yet 
it  goes  to  my  heart  that  this  child  loves  me. 
She  lias  been  brought  up  like  a  nun,  almost ; 
she  is  as  harmless  as  a  dove,  and  as  sweet  as  a 
flower.  I  want  to  keep  the  dove  her  '  silver 
wings,'  to  let  nothing  soil  the  lovely  white 
flower." 

"You  can  not.  Her  lot  is  cast  in  the  world 
— she  must  meet  it." 

"I  feel  that,  and  I  would  not  wish  to  keep 
her  from  it.  But  I  would  like  to  make  her 
strong  for  her  perilous  place — safe  in  it,  and 
worthy  of  it.     I  want — " 

"To  'do-hcr  good?'" 

Had  I  thought  that  phrase  would  have  so 
wounded  Jean,  I  would  have  cut  m)'  tongue  out 
before  I  uttered  it.  Her  lip  quivered  with  pain 
as  slie  answered, 

"Do  not  say  that.  I  shall  never  say  it 
again." 


LORD  ERLISTOUN. 


29 


"Perhaps  it  is  safest  not  said,  or  thought,  but 
you  need  not  cease  to  do  it.  One  like  you  has 
only  to  live  in  order  to  do  people  good." 

"Thank  you,  cousin."  Her  eyes  swam  in 
tears ;  she  sat  down  silent. 

I  had  brou;j;ht  her  a  letter  that  day,  which  I 
think  she  had  been  expecting  a  long  time.  Cor- 
respondence seemed  more  difficult  to  Lord  Er- 
listoun  in  the  capitals  of  civilized  Europe  than 
to  the  amateur  Bedouin  in  the  Syrian  desert. 

"We  men,  accustomed  to  take  our  sweetest 
draughts  in  small  guljjs,  during  the  intervals  of 
our  busy  or  ambitious  lives,  can  never  fully  un- 
derstand how  women  actually  live  in  letters. 
They  may  not  own  it,  even  to  their  own  hearts  ; 
when  the  deep  root  of  love — and  safer  than  love, 
trust — is  there,  you  may  cut  it  down  over  and 
over  again,  and  it  will  blossom  up  afresh  ;  but 
— 'tis  cruel  handling. 

I  found  this  out,  when,  during  an  absence  of 
Lady  Emily's,  her  fond,  girlish  letters  came  reg- 
ularly once  a  week — never  missing  a  day.  ' '  As 
sure  as  the  sun,"  my  mother  obseiTcd,  "real 
lovers'  letters." 

Jean  turned  away. 

When  her  pupil  returned  there  was  a  grate- 
fulness almost  pathetic  in  the  way  Jean  respond- 
ed to  this  love — childlike  in  its  demonstration 
still,  though  in  most  other  things  the  young  lady 
had  ceased  to  be  a  child.  She  had  learned  to 
have  a  will  and  a  judgment  of,  her  own,  and  to 
exercise  both  in  the  innumerable  ways  with 
which  one  of  her  rank  and  foitune  can  use  a 
a  woman's  best  "rights" — personal  influence. 
A  lovely  and  lovable  creature  slie  was  ;  beside 
her  exquisite  fresh  bloom,  I  sometimes  fancied 
even  Jean  looked  faded  and  old. 

Jean,  faded  ? — Jean,  growing  old  ?  I  pon- 
dered. Would  a  man — say  any  man — regard- 
ing the  fiice  he  loves,  think  with  alarm,  or  with 
a  solemn  and  yearning  tenderness,  of  how  it 
will  look  when  it  is  growing  old  ? 

Another  winter  passed — another  summer  ;  in 
the  autumn  my  father  would  have  been  dead 
two  years. 

Two  years.  Was  it  with  another  chronolo- 
gy than  this  of  death  that  Jean  now  laid  aside 
her  black  gowns  ?  Her  looks  and  her  step  light- 
ened ;  voluntarily  or  involuntarily,  she  was  evi- 
dently hoping,  if  not  believing. 

About  this  time  I  myself  received  a  letter 
from  Lord  Erlistoun. 

It  stated  his  extreme  regret  that  circumstan- 
ces of  which  Miss  Dowglas  was  aware — he  had 
written  to  her  by  the  same  mail — prevented  his 
immediate  return  to  England.  That  he  must 
leave  in  my  charge  for  a  few  months  longer, 
"  his  best  treasure  in  the  world." 

I  gave  Jean  the  letter  without  comment,  and 
she  made  none.  Her  time  was  just  then  fully 
occupied,  for  Lady  Emily  was  going  on  a  tour, 
to  Switzerland  I  believe ;  and  it  was  hard  for 
Jean  to  refuse  her  "  little  lover's"  earnest  wish 
for  her  companionship. 

"I  can't,"  she  said,  when  I  urged  too — prom- 
ising to  remove  all  scruples  on  account  of  my 


mother — "  I  can't  go  abroad.     Oh,  no  !     I  waa 
never  fit  for  any  thing  but  quiet  and  liome." 

And  after  Lady  Emily  was  gone,  she  seemed 
to  turn  more  than  ever  to  what,  if  peace,  unity, 
and  affection  could  make  it  so,  was  indeed, 
witli  all  its  narrowness,  a  "home."  I  can  see 
her  now,  as  she  used  to  sit  on  Sunday  after- 
noons, crouching  down  with  her  arm  across  my 
old  mother's  lap,  and  her  great  wistful,  weary 
eyes  fixed  opposite  on  me,  as  I  tried  to  amuse 
them  and  make  them  merry.  Sometimes,  after 
listening  and  laughing  a  little,  she  would  end 
with  a  sigh  of  relief : 

"  Oh,  Mark,  how  comfortable  you  are  I" 

These  "  treasures,"  which  some  are  readier 
to  prate  of  than  to  prize,  yet  others  must  neither 
covet  ncr  steal !  Thank  God,  I  was  always  true 
to  myself,  and  to  both  of  these. 

Day  by  day  I  watched  Jean's  round  cheek 
straighten  into  the  line  which  marks  youth's  de- 
parture. Once,  stooping  her  head  as  she  sat, 
she  said,  "Mark,  see  here!"  and  in  an  under 
lock  of  her  hair  were  distinct  white  threads,  too 
many  to  count. 

I  hardly  know  the  sort  of  feeling  it  gave  me, 
except  that  it  was  not  altogether  one  of  pain. 


CHAPTER  YII. 

"In  a  few  months"'  had  been  Lord  Erlis- 
toun's  date  of  return — indefinite  as  most  of  his 
dates  were.  During  November,  December, 
January,  February,  March,  I  brought  his  letters 
to  Pleasant  Row,  at  the  usual  uncertain  inter- 
vals, and  with  the  visual  variable  post-marks — . 
then  they  paused. 

It  was  again  spring.  I  think  there  is  a  time 
of  life  before  we  learn  to  recognize  and  acqui- 
esce in  the  mysterious  law  of  mutation,  in  our- 
selves as  in  the  external  worKl,  when  the  return 
of  spring  is  intensely  painful.  Walking  with 
her  by  the  railings  of  budding  suburban  gar- 
dens, catching  at  street-corners  bits  of  so  t 
white  and  blue  spring  skies — I  could  trace  in 
Jean's  profile  an  expression  that  went  to  my 
heart. 

Not  a  word  she  said ;  but  often  a  knock  at 
the  door  would  make  her  start  and  tremble  ; 
and  I  noticed  that  she  never  went  out  or  came 
in  without  leaving  the  careful  message,  "I 
shall  be  back  at  such  and  such  an  hour,"  or  the 
question,  studiedly  careless — "Has  any  body 
been  ?" 

No !  There  never  was  any  body ;  and  she 
used  to  walk  up  stairs,  slowly,  wearily  ;  then, 
after  a  few  minutes,  come  out  of  her  own  room 
with  her  bonnet  off  and  her  hair  smooth — palo 
and  quiet ;   tliat  day  and  its  chances  were  over. 

I  broke  through  my  customary  rule,  and  used 
to  come  up  to  Pleasant  Row  almost  every  even- 
ing. One  day  I  got  a  holiday,  and  invited 
myself  to  (''iner  with  them,  laden  with  a  nose- 
gay and  "many  ha])j)y  returns"  to  my  cousin 
Jean. 

The  tears  started  involuntarily  as  she  said, 


30 


LORD  ERLISTOUN. 


"Thank  you,  Mark;  ijou  remembered  it." 
Alas,  no  one  else. 

I  had  formed  my  plan,  a  little  to  lighten  the 
heaviness  of  this  day  ;  I  laid  before  her  two 
green  tickets  inscribed  witli  "  ISacred  Harmonic 
Society,  Exeter  Hall."  It  did  one  good  to  see 
the  brightening  of  her  eyes. 

"To-night!  and  it  is  the  'Lobjesang'  and 
'Requiem.'     Oh,  Mark!" 

"  You'll  go  then,  madam?  In  an  omnibus, 
with  your  bonnet  on,  and  sit  all  in  the  crowd 
among  the  people  ?  Avith  an  individual  who 
doesn't  understand  music  ?" 

"Cousin  Mark!"  She  laughed,  which  was 
all  I  wanted. 

So  cheerily  out  into  the  spring  evening,  then 
(shutting  the  omnibus-door  upon  the  sunset,  and 
jolting  into  the  gas-lit  London  streets,  we  went 
together,  my  cousin  Jean  and  I.  Her  hand  on 
my  arm,  her  voice  talking  at  my  side,  her  bright 
look  turned  back  every  minute  as  I  ]>ut  her  in 
front  of  me  and  tried  to  keep  her  safe  amidst 
the  waiting  crowd,  thankful  to  my  heart  that  for 
ever  such  a  little  while  I  could  have  her  to  my- 
self, and  make  her  happy ;  that  this  night,  at 
least  this  hour,  should  be  marked  with  a  white 
stone. 

I  suppose  nowhere  in  the  world  are  music 
meetings  like  these  at  Exeter  Hall ;  counting 
musicians  by  hundreds,  and  audience  by  thou- 
sands. Nowhere,  ])robably,  can  a  true  music- 
lover  feel  keener  jjleasurc  than  to  be  among  that 
sea  of  heads,  looking  up  the  sloping  hill  of  mu- 
sic-stands, gradually  appropriated,  till  on  the 
sweet  discords  of  universal  tuning  booms  out 
the  solid,  majestic  C,  of  the  great  organ.  Then 
the  murmurous  human  waves  calm  down — the 
feast  begins. 

Mendelssohn's  "Hymn  of  Praise,"  Every 
body  knows  it,  its  noble  opening  symphony 
which  musicians  love;  and  the  chorus,  '■'■All 
that  hath  life  and  breath,  sivg  to  the  Lord." 
Jean  turned  to  me — her  eyes  beaming.  The 
great  music-flood  came  pouring  out,  rolling  and 
rolling  round  us ;  with  a  happ}'  sigh,  she  jjlunged 
in  it,  and  was  swallowed  up  and  lost. 

And  to  me,  better  than  music  it  was  to  watch 
her  absorbed  listening  face,  as  the  soft  notes  of 
^'^ I  iruUcdfor  the  Lord,"  dro]ii>cd  like  oil  into 
her  troubled  heart,  till  after  "  \\'alch)iia)i,  trill 
the  nitjht  soon  pass'^"  burst  the  chorus  "■The 
night  is departinfj — drjiartinr/.'" — then  itbrimmed 
over.  Large  tears  gathered  and  fell,  washing 
away  the  hard  lines  of  pain,  and  leaving  lic^r 
dear  face  as  peaceful  as  a  ciiild's.  I  knew  it 
would  do  her  good ;  and  though  the  features 
quivered,  and  tears  were  dro])]iing  still,  I  saw 
that  licr  spirit,  as  well^as  her  voice,  was  joining 
in  the  line  which  makes  the  beginning  and  end 
of  this  "Lobjesang"— "All  that  hatli  life  and 
breath,  sing  to  the  Lord." 

I  let  the  healing  dew  fall,  and  would  not  talk 
to  her.  In  tlie  interval  I  stood  uj),  vaguely 
noticing  the  jieople  round  us  ;  intelligent,  ex- 
pressive countenances,  as  one  mostly  sees  in 
an  audience  at  E.xeter  Hall ;   then  across  the 


division  to  tlie  ten-and-sixpenny  "reserved" 
folk,  who  probably  did  not  enjoy  it  near  so  much 
as  we.  It  amused  me  to  glance  along  row  after 
row  of  those  bright-colored  opera  cloaks  and 
bare  decked  heads ;  and  then  think  of  the  bent 
head  beside  me — the  one  among  all  those  thou- 
sands, every  hair  of  which,  jioor  gray  hairs  and 
all !  was  more  i)recious  than  gold  to — one  other. 

I  think — I  am  sure — for  that  moment,  in  its 
silence  fuller  than  whole  months  of  my  usual 
life,  I  had  quite  forgotten  Lord  Erlistonn.  It 
was  a  shock  almost  like  seeing  a  ghost  rise  from 
the  dead  ;  or,  better  simile,  like  the  quiet  Elys- 
ian-dwclling  dead  being  suddenly  confronted  by 
an  apparition  of  flesh  and  blood — that  out  of 
these  rows  I  saw  a  young  man's  tall  liead  rise. 

The  height,  the  carriage,  the  imjetuous  toss 
back  of  the  hair — I  could  not  be  deceived  ;  it 
was  Lord  Erlistoun. 

Lord  Erlistoun,  here  in  England  ? — going  to 
concerts,  sitting  payly  among  his  own  friends — 
his  mother,  and  two  other  ladies  were  with  him. 
And  what  of  Jean  Dowglas  ? 

I  sat  down  doggedly,  without  a  word  or  sign  ; 
])lacing  myself  so  that  Mlien  she  turned  to  me 
she  must  turn  from  him.  I  need  not ;  for  she 
never  stirred,  only  said,  with  a  soft  comfortable 
sigh- — 

"Oh,  iMark,  this  has  been  such  a  happy  birth- 
day !" 

That  decided  me.  Come  what  would,  this 
day — perhaps  the  last,  should  he  licrs;  and  mine. 

So  I  sat  by  her,  careful  and  close,  and  heard 
in  a  sort  of  dream,  Mozart's  Mass  for  the  dead — 
the  crash  of  the  "Dies  Ir.-e'' — the  "Rex  tre- 
menda;" — the  "Agnus  Dei,"  with  its  heavenly 
close,  like  the  shutting  of  the  peaceful  gates  of 
the  grave  upon  all  human  ])ain — "Dona  nobis 
requiem." 

Then  the  evening  w  as  over. 

Very  quietly,  close,  arm  and  arm,  Jean  and 
I  went  out  with  the  press ;  just  one  minute,  and 
I  should  have  had  her  safe  out  into  the  street, 
but  it  was  not  lo  be. 

There  is  a  spot  at  the  foot  of  the  stair-case, 
just  where  the  two  streams  of  audience  mix. 
Here,  direct  face  to  face,  we  met  Lord  Erlis- 
toun ! 

Smiling  and  talking,  with  that  air  of  absorbed 
attention  which  it  \\as  hi,^  habit  to  bestow  on 
any  woman,  as  if  she  were  to  him,  for  the  time 
being,  the  only  woman  in  the  world ;  with  his 
handsome  head  stoojiing  over  and  his  careful 
cliivalric  arm  protecting  the  lady  in  his  charge 
— undoubtedly,  Lord  Erlistoun. 

He  might  have  passed  us  by  unperceived,  but 
this  lady's  eyes  were  quicker.  "  Miss  Dowglas ! 
my  dear  Miss  Dowglas  !"'  cried  the  hapjiy  voice 
of  Lady  Emily  Gage. 

So — a  pause  and  a  greeting.  It  lasted  only 
a  moment,  for  there  Mas  a  call  of  "Lady  Erlis- 
toun's  carriage,"  and  tliey  two  were  pressed  on- 
ward in  the  crowd  ;  Jean  and  I  being  left  to- 
gether. She  hung  heavily  on  ray  arm.  I  said, 
"  Shall  we  go  home?" 

"Yes." 


LORD  ERLISTOUN. 


31 


We  had  scarcely  got  clear  ont  into  the  Strand, 
when  some  one  touched  me. 

"Mr.  Browne  1  where  is  she  ?" 

Jean  leaned  slightly  forward ;  he  sprang  to  her 
side  and  caught  her  hand. 

"I  must  go  home  with  you — where  is  your 
carnage?"  He  had  forgotten,  doubtless,  hut 
recollected  soon.  "  It  will  be  pleasanter  walk- 
ing. You  must  allow  me,"  taking  firm  posses- 
sion of  Jean's  passive  arm,  he  hurried  her  on, 
as  if  hardly  knowing  what  he  said  or  did. 

"My  mother  is  gone  home  with  them — we 
are  staying  there  ;  we  have  not  been  in  England 
more  tlian  a  day  or  two.  This  meeting  is  so 
strange,  I  can  hardly  believe  it.  Jean,  oh, 
Jean !"  —  with  a  sudden  alarmed  glance,  for 
hitherto  she  had  not  uttered  one  word. 

I  called  a  vehicle  ;  Lord  Erlistoun  almost 
lifted  her  into  it.  He  sat  opposite,  holding  both 
her  hands,  and  gazing  at  her,  till  slowly  the 
color  came  back  into  her  face.  She  took  her 
hands  gently  away,  saying,  in  a  tremulous 
voice — 

"  You  are  welcome  home." 

We  reached  Pleasant  Row.  The  narrow  door 
and  dark  stair-case — the  little  parlor,  with  tea 
laid  out,  and  the  kettle  singing  on  the  fire, 
seemed  considerably  to  surprise  Lord  Ei'listoun. 
When  my  mother  came  forward,  in  her  widow's 
cap  and  altered  looks,  he  was  more  than  sur- 
prised— moved. 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Browne — my  dear  Mrs. 
Browne,"  he  kept  saying;  greeting  her  with  a 
friendly  sympathy  that  was  even  affectionate, 
and  by  its  unexpectedness  startled  the  dear  old 
lady  into  a  few  natural  tears. 

"You  find  us  sadly  changed,  indeed.  Lord 
Erlistoun." 

"No,  no,  no," he  repeated  several  times;  re- 
placing her  in  her  arm-chair,  and  taking  his 
S3at  by  her,  with  an  air  of  earnest  friendliness. 

And  Jean  Dowglas?  She  stood  looking  on, 
forgotten  for  the  moment — yet  her  pale  face 
was  all  radiant.  When  at  last  Lord  Erlistoun 
turned  round  in  search  of  her — she  had  gone. 
Several  minutes,  and  various  though  brief  ex- 
planations, passed  before  we  heard  her  hand  on 
the  door. 

Lord  Erlistoun  rose,  took  that  hand  and 
kissed  it,  openly.  "Jean,  I  have  been  hear- 
ing a  great  deal  which  you  never  told  me.  In 
all  those  long  good  letters  of  yours,  you  never 
once  told  me  ?" 

Half-reproachfully  he  spoke  ;  and  again,  with 
a  sort  of  tender  deference,  kissed  her  passive 
hand. 

Then,  her  manner  being  equally  pnssive, 
though  composed,  Jean  took  her  place  and  Ijc- 
gan  to  pour  out  tea. 

Lord  Erlistoun  was  certainly  altered.  Youn- 
ger-looking if  possible,  as  a  man  in  his  settled 
prime  is  often  younger  than  an  unsettled  h/nsi: 
boy.  His  impetuosity  was  lessened  ;  and  tliere 
was  about  him  a  new  atmosphere  of  repose  which 
in  itself  is  strength.  He  talked  as  much  as  or 
more  than  he  used  to  do — chiefly  of  his  travels; 


mentioning  incidentally,  in  reply  to  a  question 
of  mine,  that  they  had  traveled  liome  with  the 
Bishop  and  Lady  Emily,  whom  they  met  in 
Switzerland :  but  his  conversation  was  on  the 
whole  general  rather  than  personal,  and  inter- 
spersed with  fits  of  gravity  and  silence. 

Thus  we  all  sat  till  very  late  ;  Lord  Erlistoun 
and  Jean  side  by  side,  like  lovers.  Yet  I  no- 
ticed not  one  lover-like  whisper — not  one  glance 
of  discontent  at  the  presence  of  my  mother  and 
me.  He  was  evidently  satisfied  with  things  as 
they  were  ;  content  to  have  her  sitting  by  him, 
liimself  iinengrossed  and  uncngrossing  ;  testify- 
ing none  of  those  exquisite  sweet  selfishnesses, 
tliat  passionate  personality  of  right,  whicli  marks 
the  line,  often  so  fine  as  to  be  all  but  ini])crcep- 
tible,  between  mere  affection,  however  trusting 
and  true,  and  love — absolute  lordly  love,  that, 
giving  all,  requires  all,  and  will  have  it — or  no-' 
thing. 

Did  Jean  see  this,  or  seeing  feel  it?  Did 
she  understand  as  a  man  would,  that  to  any  true 
lover  it  would  have  been  torment  to  have  to  sit 
looking  at  her  sweet  face — two  otlier  faces  look- 
ing on?  That  after  this  long  parting,  to  part 
from  her  again,  though  but  for  twelve  hours, 
with  that  quiet  good-night,  that  ciisy  lifting  of 
her  cool  fingers  to  cool  lips,  would  have  been 
intolerable — impossible  ? 

Wliere  was  all  his  passion  gone  to?  His 
passion  ?     Pshaw  !      A  petty  flame 

"  That  doth  in  short,  like  paper  set  on  fire, 
Burn — and  expire." 

What  had  he  known — this  boy  ' '  in  love"— - 
of  the  real  passion,  strong  as  silent — capable  of 
any  endurance,  daunted  by  no  opposition  ;  like 
the  fire  in  the  heart  of  a  mountain,  out  of  its 
very  fervency  growing  pure  ;  patient  under  loss 
— yet  content  with  no  medium  between  total 
loss  and  total  gain  ;  exacting,  jjerhaps,  yet  sup- 
plying all  that  it  exacts ;  the  love  that  swallows 
np  all  other  petty  loves,  and  rises  sole  and  com- 
jdete,  unalienated  and  unalienable — the  love 
that  a  man  ought  to  have  for  iiis  wife  ? 

Again,  for  the  hnxidredth  time,  I  was  unjust 
to  Lord  Erlistoun.  Once  more,  as  I  paced  the 
solitary  street,  till  the  moon  set  behind  the  ter- 
race opposite,  and  Jean's  long-lingering  candle 
went  out  in  the  attic-story  of  Pleasant  Row,  I 
judged  hastily,  uncharitably,  as  we  always  must 
when  measuring  other  people  by  our  own  line 
and  rule.  I  forgot — alas,  that  we  less  seldom 
forgot ! — how  Providence  never  makes  any  two 
trees  to  grow  after  one  pattern,  or  any  two 
leaves  of  the  same  tree  exactly  alike. 

This  was  Friday — or  rather  Saturday — for  I 
did  not  reach  home  till  dawn.  On  Sunday 
morning  I  rose  and  walked  ten  miles  out  into 
the  country  to  a  little  church  I  knew ;  not  ap- 
pearing at  Pleasant  Row  till  evening. 

Jean  was  out.  They  had  called  for  her  in 
the  carriage — Lady  Erhstoun  and  Lady  Emily 
Gage ;  the  latter  was  to  return  with  her  after 
dinner. 

"Does  Lady  Emily  know?  I  think  she 
ought, "  I  said,  after  a  long  pause. 


32 


LORD  ERLISTOUN. 


"About  Jean's  engagement?  Most  likely. 
But  I  take  no  notice,  Jean  is  so  very  particular." 

"  He  was  here  yesterday  ?" 

"  Oil,  yes,  and  Lady  Erlistoun  likewise. 
They  treat  her  with  great  respect,  you  see.  Poor 
Jean,  how  I  shall  miss  her  when  she  is  mar- 
ried—" 

"  Hush,  I  hear  carriage  wheels." 

They  entered  all  together,  Jean,  Lady  Emily, 
and  Lord  Erlistoun.  The  latter,  of  course,  was 
ynvited  by  my  mother  to  remain. 

Liuly  Emily  looked  surprised,  but  said  no- 
thing :  except  afterward,  with  a  pretty  childish 
willfulness,  observing  that  "  if  he  staid  lie  was 
not  to  interrupt  the  thousand-and-one  things  she 
had  to  say  to  her  dear  Miss  Dowglas." 

Ko ;  it  was  ])lain  the  liapjiy,  innocent  creat- 
ure did  not  know ;  Jean  had  not  told  her.  I 
thought — was  it  right  or  wrong  of  Jean  ? 

She  gave  them,  Lord  Erlistoun  and  Lady 
Emily,  tiie  guests'  places  at  either  corner  of  the 
old-fashioned  sofa,  and  herself  sat  opposite,  at 
the  tea-table.  The  smile,  always  ready  to  an- 
swer Lady  Emily's,  though  exceedingly  soft  was 
very  grave,  as  if  she  were  a  great  deal  older  tiiaii 
either  of  these. 

A  strange  evening — I  often  now  look  back 
and  w  under  at  it ;  at  the  mysterious  combiiui- 
tions  of  fate  that  arise,  not  only  among  evil  but 
good  j)eo{)lc — placing  them  in  positions  where 
1  ight  seems  hardly  distinguishable  fnmi  wrong  ; 
where  every  step  is  thick  with  netted  temjita- 
tions,  every  word,  even  of  kindness  or  affection, 
like  the  whipping  of  anotlier  with  a  rod  of 
thorns. 

Lord  Erlistoun  comported  liimself  blameless- 
ly. If  in  Lady  Emily's  artless  admission  it  came 
out  tliat  they  had  been  incessantly  together, 
dreaming  over  art  and  poetry  in  Italian  cities — 
learning  great  lessons,  and  forming  noble  plans 
of  life  under  the  shadow  of  the  Alps — it  also 
came  out  that  this  bond  had  hitiierto  never 
passed  the  limits  of  simple  "  friendship."  Like- 
wise that  its  foundation  had  evidently  been  in  a 
certain  other  friend,  whom,  w  itiicjiit  n;iming,  he 
said  she  resembled,  but  whom  slic  in  iter  hu- 
mility never  thought  of  identifying  with  tliat 
dear  friend  of  her  own,  who  used  to  talk  to  her 
"just  like  Lord  Erlistoun." 

"  '  Tlie  noblest  woman  lie  ever  knew,'  he  said 
you  were" — whispered  she  with  her  arm  round 
Jean's  waist.  "I  might  have  guessed  it  could 
be  none  other  than  my  own  Jean  Dowglas." 

Jean  kissed  her.  They  were  standing  at  the 
window — where,  far  over  chimneys  and  roof- 
tofjs,  spread  the  bright  soft  sky. 

"  \Vhat  a  lovely  evening!  Lord  Erlistoun 
was  saying  on  Friday  morning,  at  Kichmoiid— 
that  he  never  remembered  so  beautiful  a  spring." 

No?  Not  that  at  Lythwaite  Hall?  He  had 
forgotten  it.  He  was  gazing,  with  an  uneasy 
air,  at  the  two  faces,  strongly  contrasted,  and 
yet  bearing  a  shadowy  likeness  each  to  each, 
the  woman's  and  tiic  girl's. 

Steadily,  with  the  manner  of  one  not  startled 
into  very  sudden  conclusion,  but  to  wliom  i)rc- 


vision  has  been  already  preparation,  Jean  looked 
down  into  those  hapjiy  eyes. 

''  My  cliild,  at  your  age,  and  Lord  Erlistoun's 
— every  thing  is,  and  ought  to  be,  beautiful 
spring." 

He  heard,  as  she  must  have  meant  him  to 
hear.  Shortly  afterward  I  noticed  that  he  took 
occasion  to  sit  by  her  .^ide,  and  talk  desultorily 
but  pointedly  to  Miss  Dowglas,  and  her  alone. 
Jean  listened. 

I'eople  think  they  can  be  generous  hypocrites, 
and  hide  their  feelings  marvelous  well ;  but 
they  can  not.  All  vain  tenderness,  conscience, 
pride  of  honor,  fear  of  giving  jiain,  can  not 
swaddle  up  a  truth.  Through  some  interstice  of 
glance  or  action  it  will  ajipear,  naked  and  cold, 
yet  a  tangible,  living  truth. 

Thus,  though  he  sat  by  her  side,  paid  her 
every  observance,  though  in  every  tone  of  his 
voice  was  unfeigned  regard,  even  tenderness,  as 
if  conscious  of  some  involuntary  wrong,  still  to 
one  who  knew  what  love  is  and  is  not,  it  became 
clear  as  dayliglit  that  Lord  Erlistoun's  present 
feeling  for  Jean  Dowglas  was  r.o  more  that  of 
two  years  since — than  the  wax  simulacra  he  was 
now  eloquently  describing  to  her,  set  in  church 
niches  and  dressed  uj>  with  flowers,  compared 
with  the  warm  breathing  womaiihocd,  adored 
yet  beloved,  of  the  saint  that  once  had  been.' 

His  reverence,  his  esteem,  remained  ;  but  his 
love  had  died.  Of  natural  decay  ?  or,  perhaps, 
at  his  age  and  with  his  temperament,  of  an 
etpially  natural  change — substitutioii  ?  If  so, 
that  fact  had  been  cai  cfully  and  lionorably  con- 
cealed. He  was  neither  coxcomb  nor  brute — 
he  was  a  gentleman.  His  attentions  all  that 
evening,  without  being  marked,  remained  sole 
and  undivided,  and  the  ol  ject  cf  them  was  un- 
doubtedly Jean  Douglas. 

Once  or  twice  I  saw  L<idy  Emily  glance  at 
them  both  with  a  flitting  troubled  susjiicion  ; 
then  smile  her  hapjiy  smile.  No,  it  wi.s  not 
I)ossil)le. 

This  young  man,  in  the  full  glory  of  his  youth, 
toned  down  by  a  maturer  wisdom,  learned — no 
matter  how  or  from  w  h(  m  ;  his  cai  ccr  just  open- 
ing before  him — a  career  worthy  of  a  true  En- 
glish nobleman,  in  his  hands  the  triple  power  of 
lank,  wealth,  and  education,  and  the  will  worth- 
ily to  use  all  three.  And  .Icr.n  Dowglas,  a  wo- 
man past  her  prime — youthful  jileasures  having 
ceased  to  be  her  jileasures — having  been  beaten 
to  and  fro  in  the  world  till  even  in  her  bright- 
est moods  her  very  enjoyment  was  grave,  and 
you  could  trace  at  times  a  certain  weariness  of 
asj>ect,  which  betokened  that  the  haven  she 
sought  was  less  hapj  iiiess  than  rest. 

No!  love  might  exist,  or  that  lingering  re- 
gard wliich  assumed  its  name ;  but  unity,  that 
oneness  of  sympathy  in  life  and  life's  aims, 
w  hich  alone  makes  marriage  sacred  or  desirable 
— between  these  two,  was  no  longer  possible. 

Lady  Emily  departed  —  Lord  Erlistoun  jiut 
her  in  the  carriage  ;  then,  instead  of  returning, 
asked  me  if  I  would  walk  with  him  for  half  an 
hour? 


LORD  ERLISTOUN. 


33 


"We  strolled  up  the  road  together ;  at  first  in 
silence,  then,  as  with  a  tacit  right,  he  asked  me 
various  questions  concerning  our  family  and 
Jean.  Finally,  in  a  manly,  serious  way  he 
thanked  me  for  my  fulfillment  of  my  "  charge," 
and  hoped  I  should  ever  remain  his  "good 
cousin." 

Returning,  we  found  Jean  sitting  by  the 
newly-lit  lamp,  a  book  open  before  her.  She 
had  been  reading  to  my  mother  the  Evening 
Psalm.      She  looked  up  as  we  entered. 

"Did  you  think  I  was  gone?"  said  Lord 
Erlistoun. 

"No;  oh,  no." 

He  sat  down  by  her,  and  began  to  enter 
more  fully  into  his  plans  about  attempting  the 
sole  vocation  which  is  readily  open  to  young 
men  in  his  position — politics.  All  his  remarks 
v.'ere  clear  and  good,  evidently  the  result  of 
much  thought  and  a  deep  sense  of  responsibil- 
ity for  all  the  blessings  of  his  lot. 

"They  are  many,"  Jean  said,  gently. 

"Do  you  think  so?"  He  sighed.  "Yes, 
you  are  right.  Surely  you  did  not  imagine  I 
thought  otherwise  ?" 

"I  should  not  be  likely  to  imagine  any  thing 
unworthy  of  you." 

"Thanks — thanks."  He  then  asked  if  she 
approved  of  his  plan  of  life.  "I  used  to  call 
you  my  conscience,  you  know.  Are  you  sat- 
isfied?" 

"I  am  satisfied." 

Something  in  her  manner  struck  him.  He 
gave  a  quick  glance  at  her,  but  under  the 
shadow  of  the  long,  thin  hand,  the  mouth 
which  spoke  looked  not  less  sweet  than  ordi- 
nary. 

Still  Lord  Erlistoun  seemed  not  quite  at 
ease.  He  began  to  move  about  the  parlor, 
taking  up  one  or  two  things  that  ornamented 
the  chimney-piece — small  relics  saved  out  of 
the  wreck,  which  Jean  had  bought  in  at  the 
•ale. 

"I  think  I  remember  this  yase.  It  used  to 
•tand  on  the  side-table  at  — " 

"  Oh,  do  not !"  At  the  sharp  pain  of  Jean's 
voice,  he  turned — took  her  hand. 

"Did  yon  think  I  had  forgotten  Lythwaitc?" 

"No,  no — you  will  not,  you  could  not.  If 
jou  wished  ever  so,  you  could  not  forget." 

"I  hope,"  he  began,  but  Jean  had  recollect- 
ed herself  now. 

"It  hurts  me  to  talk  of  Lythwaite ;  we  will 
not  do  80  any  more." 

"As  you  please." 

And  I  saw  that  either  she  had  removed  her 
hand,  or  it  had  slipped  from  his.  He  did  not 
attempt  to  take  it  auain.  They  sat  talking. 
Bide  by  side,  as  friend  with  friend,  until  the 
time  that  his  carriage  arrived. 

Lingering  about,  still  restless,  he  began  tam- 
ing over  Jean's  little  book-shelf. 

"Ah,  did  I  give  you  this?  how  fond  I  was 

of  it  once !     Here  is  my  mark,  too ;"  and  he  ran 

over  the  lines  to  himself,  warming  over  them  as 

he  went.     They  were  the  very  same  he  had  re- 

C 


peated  with  such  fervid  passion  the  night  before 
he  left  England.  With  the  same  intonation,  yet 
different,  he  repeated  them  now,  up  to  the  same 
close — 

"  I  knew  it  was  the  vision  vailed  from  me 
So  many  years — that  it  was — 

"'JE'7«i7y.'" 

Again,  for  the  second  time,  Jean  had  suj;*- 
plied  the  word,  in  a  low,  steady  voice,  as  con- 
veying the  simple  statement  of  a  fact — no  more. 
Lord  Erlistoun  started  violently,  crimsoned  up 
to  his  A-ery  brow,  shut  the  book,  and  pushed  it 
away,  saying,  hurriedly — 

"I  must  take  to  blue-books  now  —  I  have 
done  with  poetry.  Good-night,  all  —  good- 
night, Jean." 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Life,  like  love,  has  its  passive  as  well  as  act- 
ive phase — its  season  of  white  winter,  when  all 
external  vitality  ceases,  and  the  utmost  exercise 
of  reason  and  faith  is  necessary  to  convince  us 
that  any  vitality  exists  at  all.  We  walk  on, 
darkly  and  difficultly,  as  far  as  each  day  will 
caiTy  us — no  farther. 

Thus,  for  many  days,  I  knew  not  how  many, 
did  I  go  to  and  fro  between  my  lodgings  and 
Mincing  Lane,  pleading  press  of  business  to 
excuse  my  absence,  if  excuse  were  needed,  at 
Pleasant  Row.  In  all  there  happening  I  was 
as  powerless  as  if  I  abode  at  the  North  Pole. 
It  was  better  to  keep  away. 

But  as  firmly  as  I  believe  in  the  life  of  na- 
ture, sleeping  under  the  snow,  so  I  believe,  and 
did  then,  in  the  everlasting  vitality  of  truth,  of 
right,  and  what  is  in  one  sense  lesser  than,  yet 
in  its  purest  form  identical  with  both  these — 
love.  Yes,  I  believe  in  love.  Despite  its  many 
counterfeits  and  alloys,  some  so  like  it  that  for 
a  time  they  may  even  pass  current  for  it ;  with 
all  its  defilements  and  defacements,  too  pitiable 
to  be  unpardonable — I  doubt  not  that  at  the 
core  of  every  honest  man's  and  woman's  heart 
lies  that  true  coin  which,  its  value  found,  is  a 
life's  riches,  and  if  never  found,  is  yet  a  life's 
possession ;  being  still  pure  gold,  and  stamped 
with  tha  image  and  superscription  of  the  Great 
King. 

I  had  learned  much  in  these  few  years ;  I, 
Mark  Browne,  was  no  longer  the  Mark  Browne 
whose  rough-built  castle  in  Spain  crumbled 
down  at  a  word  or  two,  lightly  uttered  under 
those  chestnut-trees.  It  fell  as,  being  baseless, 
it  perhaps  deserved  to  fall ;  the  sole  architectu- 
ral effort  of  a  too-late  developed  youth  ;  we  men 
build  differently.  It  seemed  now  as  if  I  had 
never  been  thoroughly  a  man  till  the  responsi- 
bility of  those  two  dear  women  fell  on  me,  mak- 
ing me  conscious  at  once  of  my  weakness  and 
my  strength. 

Ay,  my  strength ;  "  magna  est  veritas  et  pre- 
Talebit,"  as  runs  the  little  Latin  I  ever  had  op- 
portunity to  learn.  A  man  who  has  truth  in 
himself  must  be  very  dim-sighted  not  to  detect 


34 


LORD  ERLISTOLTf. 


the  true  from  the  false  in  ethers,  and  he  who 
can  trust  liimself  is  not  afraid  tu  trust  fate — that 
is,  Providence — for  all  things. 

My  poor  Jean !  my  sorely-tossed,  tempted, 
long-tried  Jean,  with  neither  father,  brother, 
nor  friend ;  not  a  heart,  that  she  knew  of,  to 
lean  against  for  counsel  or  rest !  Sometimes  I 
thought  I  would  go  to  her ;  and  then — No.  My 
old  doctrine,  that  silence  may  be  lawful,  hypoc- 
risy never,  took  from  me  the  possibility  of  being 
Jean's  counselor.  Besides,  all  she  did  must  be 
out  of  her  own  unbiased  rectitude ;  all  she  had 
to  suffer  must  necessarily  be  suffered  alone. 

Oh,  no,  Jean,  not  alone!  If  people  could 
tell,  afterward,  the  burdens  they  have  borne  for 
others,  secretly  and  unasked,  the  days  of  sick- 
ening apprehension,  the  niyhts  of  sleejiless  care, 
when,  rationally  or  irrationally,  the  mind  recurs 
with  a  womanish  dread  to  all  possible  and  prob- 
able evils,  and  racks  and  strains  itself,  beating 
against  the  bounds  of  time,  distance,  or  neces- 
sity, when  it  would  give  worlds  only  to  arise  and 

go- 

At  last,  one  evening,  I  snatched  up  my  hat 

and  went. 

A  carriage  was  driving  from  the  door  of 
Pleasant  Row ;  I  turned  up  the  next  street. 
There  it  passed  me  again,  and  I  saw  leaning 
back  in  a  thoughfulness  that  was  absolute  mel- 
ancholy, the  sweet  face  of  Lady  Emily  Gage. 
My  cynical  mood  vanished  in  an  abstract  sort 
of  pity  for  four  persons  who  shall  be  nameless, 
but  whose  names,  no  doubt,  ministering  angels 
knew. 

Lord  Erlistoun  I  found  sitting  with  my 
mother:  both  started,  and  "thought  it  was 
Jean." 

"  Is  Jean  out  alone,  and  in  this  pouring 
rain?" 

"I  can't  help  it,  Mark — she  will  go.  But  I 
forget  you  do  not  know  she  has  taken  fresh  pu- 
pils, and  works  as  hard  as  if  all  her  life  she  in- 
tended to  be  a  poor  singing-mistress." 

Lord  Erlistoun  sprang  uj),  and  went  to  the 
window.  There  he  stood,  till  the  knock  at  the 
door  announced  Jean. 

Dripping,  muddied,  with  a  music-book  under 
her  arm — pale,  with  the  harassed  look  that  all 
teachers  gradually  get  to  wear — she  stood  be- 
fore this  young  man,  by  nature  and  education 
so  keenly  sensitive  to  external  things.  Perhaps 
she  felt  the  something,  tlie  intangible  something, 
which  all  his  courteous  kindliness  could  not 
hide ;  she  flushed  up,  and  with  a  word  or  two 
about  "never  taking  cold,"  went  to  her  room. 

Contrasts  are  good,  Init  not  such  contrasts  as 
these.  Yet  different  from  them,  and  more  mo- 
mentous, were  other  things  that  tliroughout  the 
evening  incessantly  arose,  making  Jean  start 
like  one  who,  trying  to  walk  steadily,  is  always 
treading  here  on  a  thorn  aiul  there  on  a  sharp 
stone;  those  little  th'ngs  which,  involuntarily, 
unconsciously,  ire  ths  betrayal  of  love's  decay. 

She  took  her  work.  Lord  Erlistoun  sitting  by 
her,  idle ;  she  asked  him,  mechanically,  where 
he  had  been  all  the  week  ;  and  he  answered,  in 


a  sort  of  apology,  giving  a  long  list  of  engage- 
ments "impossible  to  avoid." 

"I  did  not  mean  that;  I  know  you  must  be 
very  much  occupied.  You  were  at  the  draw- 
ing-room on  Thursday?" 

"  Yes  ;  it  was  necessary,  returning  from 
abroad  and  expecting  soon  to  return,  on  the 
diplomatic  business  I  told  you  of" 

Jean  bent  her  head.  "Lady  Emily  was 
there.  I  saw  her  dressed.  She  looked  very 
beautiful — did  she  not?" 

"  I  believe  so." 

Here  my  mother  broke  in  with  Lady  Emily's 
message,  and  how,  finding  Lord  Erlistoun  here 
and  Jean  absent,  she  would  not  stay.  ' '  She 
was  rather  cross — if  so  sweet  a  creature  could 
be  cross.  I  fancy  her  gay  life  does  not  suit  her; 
she  looks  neither  so  well  nor  so  happy  as  she 
did  six  months  ago." 

Lord  Erlistoun's  was  a  tell-tale  countenance 
at  best ;  it  told  cruel  tales  now,  and  Jean  saw 
it.  Hers  expressed  less  of  doubt  or  pain  than 
infinite  compassion  ;  but  when  he  looked  up  he 
started  as  if  he  could  not  bear  her  eyes. 

"What  are  you  so  busy  about  ?  You  are  al- 
ways busy." 

' '  I  am  correcting  counter-point  exercises  of 
my  pupils." 

"Those  pupils,"  he  repeated  with  irritation. 
"Mr.  Browne,  can  not  you,  whose  influence 
here  seems  at  least  equal  to  my  oMn,  represent 
how  unnecessary,  how  exceedingly  unsuitable 
it  is  for  Miss  Dowglas  to  continue  taking  pu- 
pils?" 

"She  never  had  any,  until  now;  with  the 
exception  of  Lady  Emily  Gage." 

He  was  silent. 

Jean  said  gently,  "My  pupils  do  me  no  harm 
but  good.  To  work  is  necessary  to  me.  I  have 
worked  all  my  life ;  I  believe  it  always  will  be 
so." 

"What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  I  will  tell  you  another  day." 

"Jean — Miss  Dowglas — I  trust  that  you — " 

"Hush,  i)ray — I  said  another  day." 

Lord  I>listoun  somewhat  haughtily  assented. 
Eor  the  rest  of  the  evening  he  talked  chiefly  to 
my  mother  and  me — scarcely  to  Jean  at  all. 
But  just  before  leaving  he  drew  her  a  little 
aside. 

"I  have  never,  in  the  short  time  since  my 
return,  been  able  to  have  speech  Avith  you  alone. 
May  I  call  to-morrow  ?  and,  in  the  mean  time, 
will  you  please  me  by  accepting  this?" 

lie  placed  on  the  third  finger  of  her  left  hand 
a  ring  lilazing  with  diamonds.  Before  she  could 
sjicak,  he  was  gone. 

During  the  short  time  I  remained  after  him, 
Jean  sat  where  he  had  left  her,  the  ring  still 
flashing  on  her  hand — winch  was  now  begin- 
ning to  lose  its  shajjcly  roundness,  and  grow 
thin  and  worn-looking,  like  an  old  woman's 
hand. 

Next  day,  a  carriage  and  pair  astonished 
Mincing  Lane,  and  in  the  dim  office  which,  at 
this  time  of  the  afternoon,  I  usually  had  all  to 


LORD  ERLTSTOUN. 


myself,  entered  Lord  Erlistoun.  He  was  evi- 
dently in  much  a^^itation. 

"Pardon  me,  I  will  not  detain  you  two  min- 
utes; but  I  wished,  before  waiting  upon  your 
cousin,  to  ask  if  you  had  in  any  way  counseled 
or  influenced  this  letter?" 

My  surprise  was  enough  to  testify  my  total 
ignorance. 

"  I  thought  so  ;  I  always  knew  you  for  a  man 
of  honor — you  would  suggest  nothing  tliat  could 
compromise  mine.  Read  this,  and  judge  be- 
tween us." 

The  idea  of  a  third  party  judging  between 
two  lovers  ! — I  hesitated. 

"I  beg  you  to  read  it;  you  being  in  some 
sense  her  guardian,  I  claim  this  as  my  right." 

A  brief  letter: 

"My  Deak  Feiend, — With  this,  I  return  your  ring. 
Some  day,  I  may  take  from  you  some  other  remembrance, 
as  from  a  friend  to  a  friend,  but — no  ring. 

"  What  I  have  for  some  time  wished  to  say,  I  now 
think  it  better  to  write;  namely,  to  ask  you  to  remove 
from  your  mind  any  feeling  of  being  engaged  to  mc. 
The  reasons  whiclr  made  me  always  resist  any  formal 
engagement  on  your  part  have  proved  just  and  right. 
You  were  always  free — you  remain  free.  I  knew  you 
better  than  you  knew  j-ourself,  and  I  do  not  cast  upon 
you  tlie  shadow  of  blame. 

"I  believe  that  once  you  loved  me  dearly;  that,  in 
some  degree,  you  will  always  love  me;  but  not  with  the 
full  and  perfect  love  that  you  owe  to  your  wife,  or  that 
alone  I  could  ever  consent  to  receive  from  my  husband. 
Therefore,  I  am  determined  to  remain,  as  I  shall  be  al- 
ways, 

"Your  sincere  and  affectionate  friend, 

"  Je.VN   DOWGI..4.8." 

"Well,  Mr.  Browne?" 

My  heart  beat  horribly;  yet  I  could  not  but 
answer  him. 

"I  am  sure  my  cousin  means  what  is  here 
written,  and  that  in  the  end  it  Mill  be  better 
thus  for  both." 

"And  by  what  right —  But  I  forget,  I  re- 
quested your  opinion.  Now  it  is  given,  will 
you  further  favor  me  by  accompanying  me  to 
Pleasant  Row  ?" 

The  young  man's  state  of  mind  was  so  ob- 
vious that,  as  Jean's  nearest  and  only  friend,  I 
resolved  to  go.  We  scarcely  exchanged  a  word 
till  we  were  in  her  presence. 

Lord  Erlistoun  advanced  haughtily,  "Miss 
Dowglas,  I  intrude,  in  consequence  of  a  letter 
received" — but  at  sight  of  her  he  broke  down. 
' '  Jean,  what  is  your  meaning  ?  What  have  I 
done  to  offend  you  ?" 

"Nothing." 

"Then  explain  yourself.  I  must  have  an 
explanation."  ^ 

At  his  violence,  Jean  turned  as  white  as 
marble  ;  but  once  more,  with  the  feeling,  higher 
than  any  thing  that  women  call  "proper pride," 
which  hud  made  her  from  the  very  commence- 
ment of  his  passion  consider  hiin  and  his  good 
first — she  controlled  herself. 

"Before  I  answer  —  answer  me  one  word 
truly ;  I  know  you  would  never  either  say  or 
act  a  falsehood.  Do  you  love  me  as  you  did 
three  years  ago  ?" 

He  did  not  reply ;  he  dared  not. 


"Then,  whatever  men's  code  of  honor  may 
be,  in  the  sight  of  God  it  would  be  utter  dis- 
honor in  you  to  marry  me." 

My  mother  left  the  room  ;  I  would  have  fol- 
lowed— but  Lord  Erlistoun  called  me  back. 
"Stay!  my  lionor,  which  this  lady  calls  into 
question,  requires  that  at  this  painful  ci-isis  I 
should  have  witnesses." 

He  then  addressed  Jean.  "  I  am  to  under- 
stand that  you  consider  my  hand  unworthy  of 
your  acceptance  ?" 

"  I  did  not  say  unworthy — but  you  know," 
steadily  regarding  him,  "  you  know  well,  there 
does  not  now  exist  between  you  and  me  the 
only  thing  which  makes  marriage  right  or  holy." 

"What  is  that; — if  I  may  ask  you  to  name 
it?" 

^^  Love.  Understand  me;  I  never  doubted 
your  honor.  I  know  }  ou  would  marry  me,  be 
to  me  most  faithful,  tender,  and  kind  ;  but  that 
is  not  all — I  must  have  love.  No  half  heart, 
charitably,  generously  given.  My  husband's 
whole  heart— or  none." 

"Is  it  the  old  complaint,  of  my  'faithless 
temperament  ?'  "  said  Lord  Erlistoun,  bitterly. 
"Because  you  were  not  my  'first  love,'  as  the 
phrase  is  ?" 

"No,  I  am  not  so  foolish — most  men's  last 
love  is  safer  than  their  first ;  yours  will  be. 
But  it  iimst  be  the  last.  I  had  best  tell  you 
the  whole  truth."  Jean  spoke  quickly  and  ex- 
citedly, as  if  out  of  long  pent-np  endurance : 
"  You  used  to  call  mc  an  angel,  but  I  am  a  mere 
woman^a  very  faulty  woman  too.  I  know 
what  jealousy  is ;  hard  to  bear  in  friendship, 
worse  in  love,  but  in  marriage  I  could  not  bear 
it.  It  would  madden  me — it  woitld  make  me 
wicked.  Therefore,  even  for  my  own  sake,  I 
dare  not  marry  you." 

"Dare  not?" 

"Do  not  be  angry;  I  blame  you  not;  but 
let  us  not  shut  our  eyes  on  the  truth.  Love  can 
change,  and  does  ;  better  in  a  lover,  where  it  is 
still  remediable  and  excusable,  than  in  a  hus- 
band whom  even  to  forgive  would  be,  in  some 
measure,  to  despise." 

"You  despise  mc?  oh,  Jean  I" 

At  the  angtiish  of  his  tone  her  composure 
melted  away  in  a  moment. 

"  No,  no,  you  could  not  help  it ;  it  was  I  that 
ought  to  have  known — I  was  a  woman,  you  were 
only  a  boy — it  was  natural,  it  was  almost  right 
you  should  change."  She  knelt  down  by  the 
table  where  he  leaned,  his  hands  before  his  face 
— "I  did  not  mean  to  hurt  you  so.  Nugent, 
Nugent!" 

"You  despise  me,"  he  repeated,  "and  you 
have  reason,  for  I  despise  myself.  No,  Jean,  I 
can  not  tell  you  a  fitlsehood ;  I  do  not  love  you 
— in  that  way." 

Perhaps  the  truth,  hitherto  verbally  uncon- 
firmed, had  not,  till  then,  come  upon  her  in  its 
total  irrevocableness,  for  Jean  slightly  shivered. 
Lord  Erlistoun  went  on,  jjassionately  : 

"I  know  not  how  it  came  about;  I  do  not 
know  myself  at  all ;  but  it  is  so.     For  months 


36 


LORD  ERLISTOUN. 


I  have  been  a  coward  and  a  hypocrite  ;  every 
day  has  been  a  torment  to  me.  To  escajje  I 
was  going  to  make  myself  a  hypocrite  for  life. 
Jean,  don't  despise  me — pity  me  I" 

"I  do." 

"Will  YOU  help  me?" 

"IwUL" 

She  separated,  and  took  fast  hold  cf  one  of 
his  clenched  hands,  a  lover's  hand  no  longer ; 
then  looking  round,  with  a  faint  movement  of 
eye  and  lip,  she  dismissed  me  from  the  room. 

Once  the  bell  rang  to  send  away  Lord  Erlis- 
toun's  carriage  ;  and  once  afterward  Jean  came 
to  the  door  and  called  my  mother. 

"  I  want  a  piece  of  bread  and  a  glass  of 
wine." 

When  we  came  in,  Jean  was  standing  by 
him,  while  he  ate  and  drank  this  last  sacrament 
of  parting.  lie  needed  it,  for  he  was  ghastly 
pale,  and  his  liands  sliook  like  a  jierson  in  ague. 
What  he  had  told  licr  must  have  cost  her  much, 
but  evidently  every  thing  was  told. 

Jean  spoke.  "  Aunt  and  cousin  Mark,  Lord 
Erlistoun  wishes  to  bid  you  good-by.  He  is 
going  abroad  again  immediately.  When  he  re- 
turns, I  have  told  him  he  will  find  us  all  his 
fiiithful  friends,"  Avith  unmistakable  emphasis 
on  the  word.     No  fartlier  explanation. 

He  staid  a  little  longer,  resting  his  head 
back  on  the  sofa,  while  Jean  sat  watching  him. 
Oh,  what  a  look  it  was  !  Scarcely  of  love,  but 
of  inexitrcssible  tenderness,  like  a  mother's  over 
a  suffering  child.  Passion  burns  out ;  person- 
al attachment  dies  out ;  the  desire  of  individual 
appr()j)riation  altogether  vanishes  away  ;  but  I 
believe  this  tenderness  over  any  thing  once 
loved  to  be  wholly  indestructible.  Shame  upon 
any  man  or  woman  who  would  wish  otherwise  ! 
for  to  kill  it  would  be  to  kill  tlie  belief  in  love 
itself,  to  doubt  which  is  the  very  death  of  the 
soul. 

Lord  Erlistoun  rose.  Jean  said  she  would 
walk  with  him  a  little  way,  and  he  sat  down 
again  v/ithout  ojjposition.  He  seemed  totally 
guided  by  her.  Only  once,  as  if  some  irritating 
thought  would  not  be  controlled,  I  heard  him 
whisper, 

"It  is  tiseless ;  I  can  not  consent.  You 
must  not  tell  her." 

"I  must;  it  is  only  right.  Kothing  is  so 
fatal  in  love  as  concealment.  I  must  tell  her 
every  thing." 

"Jean  !" 

"You  are  not  afraid  of  me?  Of  me,  Nu- 
gent ?" 

At  that,  the  only  reproach  she  had  ever  made, 
he  yii'lded  utterly.  "  Only  write  to  me.  This 
suspense  will  be  intolerable  until  you  do." 

"  I  will  write — once." 

"Not  again?" 

"  Not  again." 

He  looked  up  ;  just  a  little  lie  saw — if  a  man 
ever  could  see  into  a  woman's  heart. 

"  One  word.      Say  you  are  not  imliai)i)y  !" 

Jean  j/aused  a  moment,  then  replied,  "I  be- 
lieve it  is  not  the  will  cf  God  that  any  one  of 


His  creatures  should  have  the  power  of  making 

another  }iermaneiitly  unhappy." 

"And  you  forgive  me?" 

Jean  stooped  over  him  as  he  sat,  and  kissed 
him  on  the  forehead — the  first  kiss  she  ever 
gave  him,  and  the  last. 

They  went  out  of  the  hou.se  together,  walking 
slowly  arm  in  arm  along  the  quiet  streets,  where 
lamps  were  being  lit  in  snug  parlors,  children 
fetciied  in  from  play  to  bed,  and  hard-working 
husbands  waited  for,  late  coming  home. 

There  is  here  a  burying-ground — surrounded 
with  houses  now,  but  then  only  shut  in  by  a 
railing,  through  which  one  could  catch  both 
sight  and  scent  of  the  flowers  which  grew  lux- 
uriantly over  and  about,  bordering  the  graves. 
At  the  corner  of  this  railing  I  saw  Jean  Dou- 
glas and  Lord  Erlistoun  ))ause,  stand  a  minute, 
as  if  with  claspe'd  hands  ;  then  tlieir  ways  part- 
ed. He  went  on  toward  town  ;  she  walked 
slowly  back,  witliout  turning. 

No  ;  in  the  pathway  which  with  her  here 
ended,  we  return  no  more  ! 

One  heart,  at  least,  bled  for  thee,  Jean  ;  viij 
Jean  I 

At  safe  distance,  I  followed  her  to  Pleasant 
Kow ;  but  she  passed  the  door.  Thehce,  up 
streets  and  down  streets,  witli  a  pace  some- 
times rajjid,  sometimes  heavy  and  slow,  along 
the  familiar  i)laces  that  had  been,  as  I  once 
called  them,  her  ''  Holy  Land" — keeping  out  of 
her  siglit,  but  never  losing  sight  of  her — I  fol- 
lowed my  cousin,  Jean  Dowglas. 

At  last  siie  went  back  to  the  corner  of  the 
cemetery,  the  spot  where  Lord  Erlistoun  had 
left  her.  Tlicrc,  for  many  minutes,  she  stood 
leaning  on  the  railing,  looking  across  over  the 
graves. 

I  let  her  stand.  Better  that  she  should  bury 
her  dead  out  of  her  sight.  Who  is  there  among 
us  that  has  not  at  some  time  done  likewise  ? 
Who  is  there  that,  in  all  this  busy  world,  does 
not  own  some  graves  ? 

At  length,  I  crossed  over  and  touched  her  on 
the  arm. 

"  Jcanl" 

"  Oh,  ]\Iark,  take  me  home — take  me  home !" 

I  took  her  home. 


CHAPTER  IX. 


I  TOOK  Jean  home. 

Saying  tliis,  it  seems  as  if  I  Inul  included  all 
— as  if  it  were  the  sufficient  cx])lanation  of  our 
two  lives,  cxteriuil  and  internal,  from  that  day 
forward.  Knowing  my  cousin  as  well  as  I  now 
did,  I  was  fully  aware  tiiat,  even  among  her 
own  sex,  lier  character  Mas  a  j)eculiar  one. 
Their  ])etty  daily  j)rovender  of  work  or  ])lay  was 
not  enough  to  satisfy  tiie  hunger  of  her  sjiirit, 
aitive  and  restless  as  a  man's,  yet  burdened 
witli  those  csi)ecial  wants  and  weaknesses  that 
we  are  wont  to  designate  as  "  women's  na- 
ture."    Slie  might  iiave  conquered  them  all  in 


LORD  ERLISTOUN. 


37 


time,  and  survived  to  dwell  in  that  paradise  of 
peace,  lit  with  the  reflected  glory  of  the  next 
world,  which  is  possible  even  here  ;  but  in  this 
world  there  was  but  one  thing  that  her  heart 
could  ever  recognize  and  rest  in  as  home. 

I  loved  Jean  Dowglas.  She  was  the  only 
woman  I  ever  did  love.  She  came  and  stood 
over  my  life  like  a  star ;  clouds  arose  between 
me  and  it;  I  "wandered  in  night  and  foulest 
darkness,"  as  the  man  sings  in  that  "Lob- 
gesang" — how  its  tunes  haunt  me  to  this  day ! 
— but  my  star  never  faded,  never  fell. 

With  us,  as  Jean  said  it  was  with  her  sex, 
the  test  of  a  true  attachment — hear  it,  ye  co- 
quettes, ye  selfish  mean  prudes,  who  think  to 
make  us  the  better  lovers  by  making  us  the 
greater  fools — is,  when  we  prize  a  woman  less 
for  her  love  than  for  herself;  for  what  she  is, 
and  what  she  does ;  for  that  image  of  bright 
excellence,  which  every  man  born  of  woman 
ought  to  see  shining  before  him  all  his  life 
through,  attained  or  not — like  a  star  in  the  sky. 
If  it  falls,  God  help  him !  for  its  falling  is  like 
that  of  the  star  Wormwood,  which  draws  a  third 
of  heaven  after  it. 

I  loved  Jean.  At  first,  after  this  fashion  of 
abstract  worship ;  then  nearer,  nearer — recog- 
nizing all  her  foibles ;  not  blind  even  to  her 
very  faults ;  yet  never  losing  the  reverence,  the 
sense  of  tender  mystery,  which  all  who  love 
should  have  for  one  another,  else,  by  a  violent 
or  a  natural  death,  the  love  most  assuredly  dies. 
And  so  it  happened  that  in  the  time  of  her 
trouble  I  took  her  "home." 

She  was  perfectly  ignorant  of  this ;  ignorant 
as  a  child ;  she  looked  to  me  for  every  thing 
>vith  a  tacit  pitiful  simplicity,  also  like  a  child. 
But  I  was  a  man,  and  strong  as  a  man  ought  to 
be  when  Heaven  apparently  gives  his  destiny — 
perhaps  more  than  his,  into  his  own  hands. 

Young,  self-presuming  simpletons  may  waver 
— I  never. did;  cowards  and  passionate  may 
shrink  back,  afraid  of  their  fate  or  themselves 
— I  was  afraid  of  nothing.  Fortune's  vicissi- 
tudes, lapse  of  years,  trouble,  suspense,  uncer- 
tainty— all  these  things  are  as  nothing,  and  less 
than  nothing,  to  a  man  who  truly  loves  a  woman 
whom  he  esteems  worth  his  winning.  Either 
she  is  not,  or  he  does  not  deserve  to  win  her, 
unless  he  can  conquer  them  all. 

So  much  of  myself,  which  here  I  shall  leave ; 
as  it  is  a  subject  which  concerns  myself  alone. 

Lord  Erlistoun  quitted  England ;  not  imme- 
diately ;  but  he  never  came  again  to  Pleasant 
How.  Lady  Emily  did,  more  than  once  ;  pale 
and  sad-looking,  my  mother  told  me,  but  more 
tenderly  loving  than  ever  to  our  Jean.  Shortly, 
bhe  too  disappeared  from  London,  and  I  heard 
cf  her  no  more.  If  Jean  did — she  kept  a  ])as- 
sive  silence,  which  it  would  have  been  cruelty 
to  break. 

At  midsummer  we  left  Pleasant  Row ;  left  it 
to  the  shriek  of  the  engines  and  the  curl  of  the 
^ray,  spectral  steam.  They  will  never  tell  any 
tales — those  two  bare  walls,  roofless,  open  to  the 
Bky. 


I  found  a  little  cottage,  some  miles  out  of 
London,  where  I  established  my  mother  and 
Jean.  Algernon  likewise  ;  that  he  might  have 
every  chance  of  keeping  up  health  in  the  work 
from  which  he  must  not  shrink.  Poor  lad !  but 
we  all  of  us  have  something  to  endure. 

"Oh,  how  pleasant !"  sighed  Jean,  beholding 
the  cottage;  the  fields,  and  the  flowers.  "Only 
my  pupils — " 

"You  must  give  them  up." 

"Must?" 

"  If  you  please — at  least  for  the  present  while 
you  honor  me  by  taking  charge  of  my  mother 
and  that  obstreperous  boy.  They  will  give  you 
quite  trouble  enough." 

"  Oh,  Mark!"     She  smiled  and  consented. 

Sunday  by  Sunday  I  found  her  cheeks  looking 
less  wan  and  her  step  lighter.  There  is  hardly 
any  trouble  which  can  not  be  borne  easier  in  the 
country,  among  fields  and  flowers. 

About  this  time  I  had  a  sort  of  calenture  my- 
self;  a  desperate  craving  that  was  granted  to 
my  cost.  I  fell  ill ;  and  was  a  month  absent 
from  Mincing  Lane. 

I  had  seen  Jean's  care  over  others ;  her 
watchful  tenderness,  her  power  of  entire  devo- 
tion to  those  who  needed  her,  but  I  had  never 
experienced  it  myself  till  noAV.  Every  trivial 
circumstance  of  every  day  and  hour  of  that 
month  still  remains  vivid  in  my  memory.  I 
may  yet  bless  Heaven  for  it.  I  did  even  then  at 
times ;  not  always. 

When  I  recovered,  it  was  winter ;  then,  rapid- 
ly as  time  seems  to  gallop  when  one  has  fairly 
left  youth  behind,  it  was  spring.  For  nearly  a 
year  the  trains  had  been  passing  and  repassing 
through  our  old  parlor  at  Pleasant  Row. 

Not  a  syllable  heard  I  of  Lord  Erlistoun, 
He  might  have  been  dead — or  married,  as  Avas 
indeed  more  likely.  Caught,  doubtless,  by  the 
next  fair  face  that  crossed  his  way,  since,  ap- 
parently, some  retributive  fate  had  swept  from 
him  that  sweet  fond  one  of  Lady  Emily  Gage. 
As  for  Jean,  hers,  dear  heart !  was  to  him  no 
more  than  dust  and  ashes  now. 

So  thought  I,  but  I  was  mistaken.  One  day 
I  found  on  my  table  a  packet  addressed  "Miss 
Dowglas." 

How  dared  he  even  to  write  her  name ! 

I  carried  the  letter  in  my  pocket  all  Saturday, 
half  of  Sunday,  in  the  village  church,  up  and 
doAvn  the  peaceful  fields.  Jean's  spirit  seemed 
peaceful  as  they ;  she  was  a  little  more  silent 
than  usual,  perhaps,  but  with  an  inexpressible 
calm  in  her  and  about  her.  I  could  not  give 
her  the  letter. 

After  tea,  when  Algernon  had  gone  out  and 
my  mother  was  asleep,  she  said, 

"Mark,  I  wanted  to  tell  you  something. 
You  sent  me  this  '  Ga/if/nani'  on  Friday  last, 
did  you  know  what  was  in  it?'* 

"No." 

"See." 

I  read.  "Married  at  the  British  Embassy, 
J^aris,  Nwjcnt,  Baron  Erlistoun,  to  the  Lady 
Emily  (j'age." 


38 


LORD  ERLISTOUN. 


I  folded  up  the  paper  slowly  and  returned  it ; 
as  I  did  so,  it  was  my  hand  tliat  shook,  not 
Jean's. 

"  You  see,"  she  said,  "all  is  as  was  right  to 
be.  I  knew  it  would  happen  so  in  the  end.  I 
am  very  glad.  Only,  somehow,  if  they  had 
told  me  themselves — " 

I  gave  her  Lord  Erlistoun's  letter. 

Two  letters  I  saw  were  inclosed.  She  read 
them  one  after  the  other  without  moving  from 
her  place,  without  even  turning  aside ;  then 
took  up  and  unfolded  a  little  j^ackct  which  ac- 
companied them.  It  was  a  ring  made  of  hair, 
a  dark  lock  and  a  fair  one,  set  in  gold,  with 
their  two  names  engraved  inside  ;  ''Xugeut" — 
"Emily." 

Jean  put  it  on  her  finger,  looked  at  it,  twisted 
it  up  and  down,  till  slowly  her  eyes  filled — ran 
over. 

"It  was  very  kind.  God  bless  them.  God 
bless  them  botli !" 

This  was  all. 

For  another  year  our  life  flowed  on,  without 
change  or  prospect  of  change.  At  least,  to 
three  of  us,  my  mother,  Jean,  and  me.  The 
boys  were  all  grown  uji,  Charles  even  contem- 
plating matrimony,  though  he  had  faithfully 
educated  Russell  and  started  him  as  a  private 
tutor  before  indulging  in  that  luxury.  Alger- 
non had  been  transferred  to  a  situation  in  Liver- 
])ool,  where  still  lingered  in  good  repute  our 
honest  name  of  Browne. 

"They  tell  me,  if  I  Mere  to  start  as  a  mer- 
chant, on  my  own  account,  I  might  nuikc  a  for- 
tune yet,  Jean." 

"  Should  you  ?"  She  answered  mc  with  that 
open  smile  which  showed  at  once  her  total  ig- 
norance of  for  whom  alone  the  fortune  would 
be  worth  making ;  and  so,  without  referring  to 
the  matter  again,  I  turned  my  ways  back  to 
Mincing  Lane. 

And  still,  in  rain  or  sunshine,  green  leaves 
or  snow,  I  came,  on  Sundays,  to  look  after  "my 
household,"  as  I  called  my  motlier  and  Jean. 

A  quiet  household — though  dear  and  home- 
like. At  least  as  much  so  as  the  just  law  of  na- 
ture and  possiliility  allows  two  solitary  women, 
of  ditt'crcnt  ages,  oi)]iosite  in  character,  and  un- 
allied  by  blood,  to  make,  to  themselves  a  home, 
or  rather  a  habitation.  Sometimes  I  wondered 
if  Jean  f^-lt  tliis  distinction  ;  if  her  present  life 
were  sufficient  to  her;  or,  supposing  her  Mon- 
day morning  thoughts  ever  followed  mc  from 
the  sunsiiiiiy  jessamine  porch  into  the  shadows 
of  Mincing  Lane,  whether  she  thought  my  life 
was  sufficient  to  me? 

I  was  no  coward.  I  did  not  comjilain  of  my 
lot,  nor  dasli  myself  to  ])i(!ces  against  its  stony 
boundaries.  If  Heaven  had  set  them,  let  them 
Stand  !   if  not,  mine  was  a  strong  hand  still. 

Once  only,  I  confess  to  have  been  Ijeaten  by 
fate,  or  the  devil,  or  possibly  both.  I  was  hur- 
rying down  Gheapside,  anxious  to  shut  up  the 
office,  the  business  of  which  tiie  firm  now  left 
almost  entirely  in  my  hands.  I  wanted  to  catch 
the  last  breath  of  au  autumn  afternoon  down  the 


river ;  less  for  pleasure  than  for  health,  which 
a  man  whose  sole  capital  it  is  has  a  right  to 
economize  ;  and  mine  had  somewhat  dwindled 
of  late. 

There  was  a  "  lock"  in  the  street,  which  de- 
tained and  annoyed  me  ;  I  was  apt  to  be  irri- 
table at  little  things  now.  That  pair  of  pranc- 
ing grays  which  stopped  the  crossing,  what  right 
had  they  and  their  owners  caracoling  lazily 
along  the  smooth  ways  of  life,  to  come  and 
balk  us  toiling  men  out  of  our  only  possession, 
our  time  ? 

I  just  glanced  at  the  occupants  of  the  carriage 
— only  two,  a  lady  and  gentleman,  talking  and 
smiling  to  one  another  ;  young,  handsome,  hap- 
py-looking. When  they  had  passed  I  knew 
them;  Lord  and  Lady  Erlistoun.  They  did 
not  see  me,  and  I  was  glad  of  it.  I  am  afraid 
the  devil  was  uppermost  for  many  minutes  after 
then. 

So  they  were  in  England  again  ?  "Would 
they  seek  us?  would  Jean  wish  it?  would  she 
dare  wish  it  ?  I  could  not  tell.  I  racked  my- 
self with  conjectures  ;  trying  to  measure  a  wo- 
man's nature  by  a  man's ;  arriving  at  what  is 
usually  tlie  only  safe  and  wise  conclusion,  viz., 
that  we  know  nothing  about  the  sex  at  all. 
My  sole  certainty  was  in  her  own  words — that 
Heaven  never  allows  to  one  human  being  the 
power  of  making  another  "permanently  unhap- 
py." 

How  a  few  quiet  words,  spoken  naturally,  as 
we  were  crossing  the  Sunday  fields,  settled  all ! 
I  could  have  smiled. 

"Mark,  I  had  yesterday  an  invitation  that  I 
sliould  like  to  accept,  "^"ill  you  try  to  fake  a 
(lay's  h(;liday  and  go  witn  me  to  sec  Lord  and 
Lady  Erlistoun  ?" 

"Certainly." 

I  called  for  Jean  early  one  forenoon.  She 
was  sitting  quite  ready,  in  her  bonnet  and  shawl, 
reading ;  but  she  looked  up  at  my  entrance — 
that  bright  involuntary  look  which,  caught  un- 
exjiectedly,  is  worth  untold  gold. 

The  lanes  to  the  station  were  sunshiny  and 
dewy  ;  Hollingboume,  the  chief  property  of  the 
heiress  Lady  Emily,  was  about  thirty  miles 
down  our  line  of  railway.  We  walked  briskly, 
rejoicing  in  the  jjleasant  day.  Jean  said,  she  be- 
lieved none  but  those  who  rarely  had  it,  could 
fully  ajipreciate  the  deliciousness  of  a  holiday. 

"  Then  a  life  of  labor  is  the  best.  Do  you 
think  so,  Jean  ?" 

"  I  do.     Far  the  highest  and  noblest." 

"  More  so,  for  instance,  than  that  of  Lord 
Erlistoun  ?" 

I  felt  almost  reproved  at  her  grave  and  soft 
reply. 

"Lord  Erlistoun's  is,  and  will  be  more  so  as 
he  grows  older,  a  noble  life  too.  I  always  felt 
sure  of  that.  He  was  like  a  good  shij),  gallant 
and  true,  but  blown  about  hither  and  tliithcr  for 
want  of  an  anchor  to  hold  by.  He  has  found 
it  now,  in  his  wife's  heart." 

"Do  you  think  a  man's  life  is  never  com- 
I)let,;  without  a  wife?" 


LORD  ERLISTOUN. 


39 


**  Some  men's  are  not — he  is  one.  He  needs 
to  be  happy  in  order  to  be  good.  I  used  to 
think  the  same  myself  once.  Now  it  seems  to 
me  that  those  cliaracters  are  nearer  perfectness 
in  whom  to  be  good  is  the  first  aim  ;  who,  living 
in  and  for  the  All-good,  can  trust  Him  with  their 
happiness." 

I  said,  looking  at  her  sideways  for  a  moment, 
"I  think  so  too." 

Thus  talking  we  reached  the  station,  and 
Jean  put  her  purse  into  my  hand  with  a  wicked 
little  trick  of  independence  she  was  prone  to, 
however  unavailing. 

"Well,  second-class,  of  course,"  she  warned 
me. 

"No.  I  never  mean  to  let  you  travel  second- 
class  again." 

Jean  laughed  and  submitted.  When  we 
were  in  the  carriage  she  leaned  back,  watching 
the  whirling  landscape  in  silence ;  but  my  land- 
scape was  her  face. 

No  longer,  by  the  utmost  flattery,  to  be  call- 
ed a  young  face  ;  roundness  and  coloring  gone, 
the  large  aquiline  features  distinctly,  not  to  say 
harshly  marked — it  was  noble  still,  but  beauti- 
ful no  more ;  imless  for  that  mellowness,  like 
the  haze  of  autumn  which  never  comes  until 
the  summer  of  life  is  altogether  gone  by.  A 
sweetness,  a  repose,  indicating  her  total  recon- 
cilement to  youth's  passing  away — her  perpet- 
ual looking  forward  to  that  which  alone  gives 
permanent  content  in  earthly  jileasures — the  rest 
which  is  beyond  them,  the  pleasures  which  are 
for  evermore. 

The  train  stopped  at  a  small  wayside  station. 
A  carriage  was  waiting,  and  a  gentleman. 

"MissDowglasl" 

"  Lord  Erlistoun  ?" 

They  met — not  quite  without  emotion  ;  but 
only  so  much  as  old  friends  might  naturally 
meet  with,  after  long  absence.  No  more ;  not 
a  particle  more. 

"  Emily  is  here  too.  She  is  longing  to  see 
you,"  and  he  hurried  Jean  to  the  little  waiting- 
room,  where  Emily  fell  on  her  neck  and  shed  a 
few  tears.  She  seemed  more  affected  than  ci- 
ther of  them,  this  fortunate,  happy,  loving  and 
beloved  Emily. 

That  day  jiassed  like  a  dream  ;  in  and  about 
Hollingbourne,  which  was  a  spot  lovely  as  dream- 
land, and  with  those  two,  fit  owners  of  it  all, 
who  seemed  in  their  position  and  themselves, 
familiar  and  yet  strange,  known  and  yet  un- 
known, as  people  are  whom  one  has  to  do  with 
in  dreams. 

"  We  asked  no  one  to  meet  you,"  said  Lord 
Erlistoun,  "  we  wanted  this  first  visit  to  have 
you  all  to  ourselves  ;  and  besides  we  do  not  in- 
tend to  be  swamped  in  society  just  yet ;  we  feel 
as  if  we  never  could  have  enough  of  solitude." 

His  natural,  unconscious  "we," — his  evident 
delight  in  this  same  "solitude," — at  least  so 
much  of  it  as  was  possible  in  a  house  like  a 
palace,  and  an  estate  like  half  a  shire, — ay, 
Jean  was  right.  His  last  love  had  been  the 
true  one  ;  he  had  cast  anchor  and  found  rest. 


' '  Yes,  she  looks  well,  and  happy  too, "  I  over- 
heard him  say  ;  his  eyes,  fonder  than  any  lover's 
eyes,  watching  his  young  wife,  as  she  flitted 
about  her  splendid  conservatory,  a  flower  among 
the  flowers;  "and,  I  think,  Jean,  every  day 
she  grows  more  like  you." 

This  was  the  only  time  he  called  her  "Jean," 
or  that  in  speaking  to  her  his  voice  dropped 
into  any  thing  of  the  old  tone.  The  only  time 
that  Jean's  countenance  altered — though  for  no 
more  than  an  instant.  No  angel  in  heaven 
could  have  worn  a  happier  smile  than  Jean 
Dowglas  now. 

They  both  walked  with  us  to  the  station — 
they  seemed  to  be  in  the  habit  of  walking  to- 
gether a  good  deal.  Our  last  sight  of  them  was 
standing  on  the  platform,  arm  in  arm  ;  Lord 
Erlistoun  lifting  his  hat  in  adieu,  with  his  pecul- 
iar stately  air — Lady  Erlistoun  leaning  forward 
to  catch  one  more  look,  in  her  fond  childish 
way,  of  her  "dear  Miss  Dowglas." 

Jean  closed  her  eyes,  as  if  to  shut  in  the  pic- 
ture and  keep  it  there.  Opening  them  a  few 
minutes  after,  she  met  mine  and  smiled. 

"Have  you  liked  your  holiday  ?" 

"Yes  ;  and  you  ?" 

"I  have  had  a  happy  day.  I  was  very  glad 
to  see  them." 

"  Shall  you  go  again  often  ?" 

"  No,  I  think  not.  Their  current  of  life  runs 
so  widely  diflerent  from  mine.  I  do  not  wish 
it  otherwise.  I  think,  Mark,  I  am  coming  to 
that  time  of  life  when  one's  chief  happiness  is 
home." 

We  happened  to  be  alone  in  the  carriage ; 
the  lamp  shone  dimly  on  Jean's  figure — leaning 
back,  with  her  hands  crossed  :  outside  all  was 
pitch-black  nothingness.  Thei'e  might  have 
been  nothing  and  nobody  in  the  wide  world  but 
her  and  me. 

"Jean,  something  happened  to  me  last  week 
that  I  should  like  to  consult  you  about.  Shall 
1  now  ?" 

She  turned  and  listened. 

I  told  her  how,  this  Michaelmas,  my  salary 
had  been  doubled.  How,  then  speaking  to  the 
head  of  our  firm  upon  Algernon's  conviction 
that  the  good  name  of  "Browne  and  Son"  was 
still  enough  to  launch  "Brown,  Brothers,"  and 
float  them  into  smooth  water,  if  they  had  only 
a  handful  of  capital  to  start  with— the  worthy 
old  fellow,  once  a  creditor  of  my  father's,  had 
offered  me  as  a  loan  the  amount  of  his  long 
jjaid  debt. 

" '  Use  it,  or  lose  it,  or  give  it  me  back  any 
time  these  ten  years.  'Tis  as  good  as  thine 
own,  lad,  for  nobody  would  ever  have  paid  mc 
a  penny  of  it,  except  thy  honest  fathei'.'  " 

Jean's  eye  sparkled  as  I  ended  my  tale. 

"Would  you  like  me  to  accept  it  and  start 
afresh  ?     You  think  it  would  not  be  too  late  ?" 

"Nothing  right  to  do  is  ever  too  late.  And 
this  seems  right,  for  Algernon's  sake.  Also," 
her  voice  dropping  tenderly,  "for  the  sake  of 
your  father." 

"Yes — he  would  bo  happy,  if  ho  knew  his 


«0 


LORD  ERLISTOUN. 


memory  could  help  us  still — my  dear  old  fa- 
ther 1"  And  for  the  moment  I  thought  only  of 
him,  and  of  the  pride  of  once  more  building  up 
our  honest  name  in  my  native  town,  and  among 
my  own  people. 

Jean  asked,  if  I  had  any  hesitation  in  accept- 
ing this  loan,  for  which  I  might  pay  interest 
shortly,  and  repay  the  whole  in  ten  years  ? 

"But  what  if  I  do  not  live  ten  years  ?" 

"Nonsense." 

"So  you  think  me  immortal,  as  those  seem 
to  be  whose  life  is  valueless  to  themselves  and 
everj-  body  else  ?" 

"  That  is  not  my  cousin  Mark — as  you  well 
know." 

After  a  while,  I  asked  her  if  slie  could  not 
understand  my  fear  of  taking  this  loan,  and 
perhaps  failing,  and  leaving  the  debt  as  a  legacy 
to  Algernon. 

"  But  is  it  not  for  Algernon's  sake  that  you 
would  undertake  the  risk  ?" 

"Not  entirely,  Jean,"  and  out  came  the  bit- 
terness of  years — "I  have  never  in  my  life  had 
any  thing  to  live  for  except  duty  and  honor. 
At  least  let  me  hold  these  until  the  end." 

Jean  sat  thinking  for  some  time ;  then  she 
turned  to  me. 

"  Mark,  I  also  feel  that  the  only  things  worth 
living  for  are  duty  and  honor.  AVill  you  trust 
me  with  yours?" 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"You  asked  my  advice — this  is  it.  Accept 
this  good  man's  money ;  use  it  well :  repay  if 
you  can.  If  not,  and  I  live,  I  will.  Otherwise 
at  my  death  I  will  take  care  that  it  is  jiaid. 
Now,  sliall  you  be  content  ?" 

Probably  few  men  ever  feel  as  I  did  then. 
Not  for  the  matter  of  "gcnerosit}-,"  "obli^^a- 
tion," — there  was  that  in  my  heart  which  coun- 
terbalanced both,  nay,  smiled  at  the  thought  of 
their  existing  at  all,  between  Jean  and  me — 
but  the  goodness,  the  tenderness,  which,  whether 
or  not  indilFerent  to  my  personality,  understood 
and  cherished,  and  was  ready  to  guard  to  the 
death,  the  true  j«e,  which  I  valued  above  all 
things  else, — my  conscience  and  my  honor. 

"Will  you  be  content?"  she  said  again. 
"Will  you  ti-ust  mc ?  I  would  you,  and  always 
did." 

"  Do  you  trust  me,  Jean  ?" 

"More  than  any  body  in  the  whole  world." 

Doubtless  slie  wondered  that  I  replied  no- 
thing, that  I  did  not  even  touch  her  extended 
liand,  tliat  I  lifted  her  out  of  the  railway  car- 
riage, and  walked  with  her  through  the  solitary 
star-lit  lanes,  almost  without  a  word.  That 
when  we  fcnind  my  mother  gone  out  with  Al- 
gernon, not  to  b<j  back  for  an  hour,  I  sat  down 
stupidly  by  the  parlor  fire  mute — as  death,  if  you 
will.      "  ilold  tiic  last  fast,"  s.ays  the  proverb. 

When  Jean  came  down  stairs,  with  her  bon- 
net off,  in  her  white  colhir  and  braided  liair, 
she  made  a  discovery  of  a  change  in  the  parlor, 
•Which  indeed  I  had  myself  forgotten.  She 
looked  at  once  to  me,  and  I  attempted  no  de- 
nial. 


"  Yes,  I  thought  the  hired  tin  kettle  had  been 
strummed  enough  in  its  day,  and  merited  su- 
perannuation. Do  you  like  your  new  piano, 
even  though  I  chose  it  ?" 

"  How  kind  you  are !" 

Not  another  word.  No  folly  of  ' '  obliga- 
tion." If  there  had  been,  if  she  had  not  taken 
it  quite  naturally,  as  I  would  have  wished  to 
see  her  take  a  mountain  of  diamonds,  were  it 
mine  to  oiler  her,  I  also  should  probably  never 
have  said  another  word. 

She  sat  down  and  played  for  some  time,  I 
sitting  over  the  fire. 

"Mark,  have  you  forgotten  this?  you  have 
not  asked  for  it  for  a  long  time." 

— My  tune,  which  always  brought  back  my 
cousin  Jean,  in  the  Lytliwaite  drawing-room, 
with  the  sunshine  on  her  hair.  Also,  because 
this  "Lied  ohne  worte"  seemed  to  my  fancy  to 
tell  a  whole  life's  story  ;  a  duet  in  which  you 
can  hear  distinctly  the  man's  voice  and  the 
woman's  ;  separate  ;  together  ;  then  wandering 
apart  again  in  troubled  involved  i)hrases,  but 
always  in  extremity  comes  back  the  tune  in  the 
bass,  sweet  and  firm  ;  at  last  the  treble  air  is 
caught  up  with  it,  and  both  fall  into  a  melody 
more  "  comfortable  " — to  use  Jean's  word-^than 
any  bit  of  music  I  know.  Ending  in  two  notes 
several  times  recurring,  which  sa}',  as  plain  as 
notes  can  say  it,  "Come  home,  come  home, 
come  home." 

Sometimes,  when  a  vase  is  brimful,  a  touch, 
the  shadow  of  a  touch — and  over  it  runs. 

"  Did  you  like  your  tune  ?" 

"  Yes — but  come  and  sit  by  the  fire,  Jean." 

She  did  so — one  on  each  side  the  hearth ; 
making  two  of  us.  Only  two.  Supposing  it  had 
been  "my  ain  iire-side !" — I,  who  never  in  my 
life  had  had  a  fire-side  of  my  own — my  very 
own. 

"How  pleasant  a  wood  fire  is,  Mark!  But 
when  you  go  to  Liverpool,  we  shall  cease  to 
have  one  fire-side  to  sit  over  and  talk  together." 

"We  never  had,  except  on  Sundays.  You 
forget,  I  have  only  had  you  for  my  Sunday 
blessing." 

"  Have  I  been  a  blessing?  I  am  glad.  It  is 
something  to  be  a  blessing  to  somebody.  It  was 
more  than  I  deserved." 

She  shaded  her  eyes  from  the  fire,  which 
blazed  and  crackled  as  if  it  knew  winter  was 
coming,  but  burned  cheerily  and  was  not 
afraid. 

Now  or  never. 

"Jean,"  I  said,  "if  I  go  to  Liverpool,  and 
can  make  a  fortune  there,  or  at  least  a  com- 
j)etence,  will  you  come  home?" 

"Your  motlier  and  I?" 

"My  mother,  if  she  chooses,  but  I  meant 
you.  I  can  not  do  without  you.  I  could  once, 
five  years  ago,  because  it  was  necessary  and 
right;  but  now  I  can  not.  "I"is  not  worth 
making  a  home — I  will  not  do  it — except  for 
you." 

"Me!    me?" 

She  looked  steadily  into  my  face,  and  found 


LORD  ERLISTOUN. 


41 


out  all.    She  drooped  her  head  lower  and  lower, 
almost  into  her  lap,  and  burst  into  tears. 

I  said  no  more.  It  may  be  months,  years, 
before  I  say  any  more.  I  would  not  take  my 
life's  ransom  unless  it  were  a  free  gift. 


Algernon  and  I — "Browne  Brothers" — are 
working  our  best.  We  have  hardly  any  holi- 
days, except  an  occasional  evening  stroll,  with 


a  western  breeze  blowing  in  the  tide,  and  the 
sunset  throwing  colors,  beautiful  as  Paradise, 
along  the  sandy  flats  of  the  Mersey  shore. 

I  write  either  to  my  mother  or  Jean  every 
Sunday.  Now  and  then,  Jean  writes  to  me, 
only  a  line  or  so,  expressing  little  or  nothing  ; 
and  so  it  may  be  for  God  knows  how  long,  or 
forever. 

But  sometimes  I  think — 


AL¥YN'S  FIEST  ¥IFE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

Yes — she  loved  him. 

It  was  a  thing  which  has  liappened  over  and 
over  again — which  will  hajjpcn  while  the  world 
endures ;  almost  the  saddest  tiling  which  can 
occur  in  the  life  of  a  woman  :  he  only  liked  her 
— she  loved  him. 

I  use  these  impersonals  in  commencing,  be- 
cause they  seem  to  come  naturally  in  writing  of 
the  two  concerned.  "  He"  and  "  she"  were 
then,  and  for  years  after,  the  most  important  ob- 
jects in  my  circle  of  existence — my  brother,  Al- 
wyn  lieid,  and  Marjory  Blair.  He  lived  with 
me,  earning  his  bread  as  a  teacher  of  languages 
in  our  country  neighborhood ;  s!ie  was  his  pu- 
pil. At  least  this  was  tlie  tie  between  tiiem  at 
first ;  gradually  I  found  he  had  gained  the  foot- 
ing of  a  friend  in  the  house.  Old  Mi',  and  Mrs. 
Blair  were  simple  people  ;  fonder  even  than 
grandparents  are  proverhially  allowed  to  be. 
They  liked  every  body  who  liked  Marjory. 

And  Alwyn  told  me — as  I  doubt  not,  both  in 
word  and  manner,  he  had  openly  expressed  at 
th-;  farm,  for  he  was  a  warm-hearted,  impuls- 
ive, and  demonstrative  fellow  —  that  he  liked 
Miss  Marjory  very  much  indeed. 

She  was  the  first  woman  he  had  known  inti- 
mately— that  is,  the  first  who  possessed  youth, 
grace,  and  a  cultivated  mind  ;  and  at  his  age  all 
women  are  angels.  I  feel  sure  that,  for  a  little 
space,  his  fancy  had  thrown  the  glamour  of  a 
poetical  ideal  over  the  sim])le  manners  and  mild 
expressive  face  of  Marjory  Blair.  Fur  a  day 
and  a  iialf  he  even  contested  with  me  tiiat  she 
was  handsome.  However,  that  notion  faded 
away,  and  lie  contented  himself  with  avouching 
that  it  was  her  soul  which  made  her  beautiful, 
since  in  her  were  combined  the  finest  intellect 
and  the  highest  moral  nature  he  had  ever  found 
in  a  woman.  He  used  to  talk  of  her  qualities, 
taking  her  to  pieces,  anatomizing  her,  as  it  were, 
by  the  hour  together,  proclaiming  continually 
her  perfection,  and  how  very,  very  much  he 
liked  her. 

At  first  I  was  uneasy  fur  his  sike,  remember- 
ing that  Air.  Blair  was  a  rich  farmer,  and  my 
brother  a  poor  teaciicr  of  languages.  After- 
ward, on  keener  observation,  I  grew  satisfied  on 
liis  account. 

"^  Thus  things  went  on  for  a  whole  summer ;  it 
was  not  until  the  fall  of  the  year  that  I  myself 
was  formally  invited  to  the  farm. 

Coming  home,  after  having  for  a  long  even- 
ing watched  Miss  Blair  and  Ahvyu,  I  just  drew 


from  my  own  mind  the  conclusion,  which  after- 
ward became  only  too  clear,  thinking  it  sadly 
over  to  myself — in  almost  the  same  words  which 
head  this  chapter. 

Ay,  Marjory  lo^•ed  him.     Poor  little  girl ! 

1  could  not  think  he  was  to  blame ;  he  was 
a  very  honorable  fellow.  He  did  not  "make 
love,"  as  the  saying  is,  in  the  slightest  degree. 
The  "love"  made  itself — sprang  instinctively 
in  response  to  his  goodness,  his  kindness,  his 
tenderness.  For  she  was  a  feeble  and  delicate 
creature  ;  and  for  Alwyn  to  feel  and  to  show  a 
protecting  fondness  over  such  an  one,  was  as 
natural  as  the  breath  he  drew.  Then  he  was 
so  totally  different  from  all  other  young  men  in 
our  parts.  He  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  be  him- 
self— his  natural,  true  self — without  any  seeking 
to  please — to  make  almost  any  woman  care  for 
him. 

And  so  this  fate  befell  poor  Marjory,  who  was 
simple  and  lonely,  and  perhaps,  from  her  weak 
health,  too  much  given  to  look  to  the  dreamy 
and  romantic  side  of  things.  Also,  the  cu}) — 
the  universal  cup — being  held  to  her  \i\)s  rather 
later  than  to  most,  for  she  was  four-and-twenty 
— six  months  older  than  Alwyn — she  drank — 
drank ;  thinking,  jierhajts,  that  it  was  his  be- 
loved hand  which  held  it,  when,  in  fact,  it  was 
the  hand  of  the  angel  of  doom. 

I  was  very  sorry,  indeed,  for  poor  gentle  Mar- 

She  did  not  betray  her  feelings  in  any  un- 
maidenly  way ;  in  fact,  they  were  scarcely  be- 
trayed at  all,  except  by  accidental  flushings  and 
tremblings ;  a  certain  restless  wandering  of  the 
eye  toward  any  corner  of  the  room  wlierc  he 
was ;  a  certain  intentness  of  ear  whenever  he 
was  speaking,  however  hard  she  tried  tokec])  up 
conversation  with  mc  the  while.  For  all  things 
else  (these  little  things  no  one  would  notice,  or 
did  notice,  save  me)  she  was  just  what  I  expect- 
ed to  find  her — graceful,  sinijde,  retiring.  He 
had  painted  her  correctly,  which  no  lover  would 
have  done. 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  of  her?"  said  he, 
eagerly,  as  we  walked  home. 

"All  that  you  think  of  her,  and  something 
more." 

"  That  is  right ;  I  felt  sure  you  would  like 
her.  She  is  the  very  sweetest  girl  we  know. 
If  ^he  were  only  a  little  prettier,  and  —  don't 
you  agree  with  me  ?^ — just  a  trifle  less  pale ;  a 
degree  more  of  rounded  outline." 

"I  thought  you  hated  fat  women." 

"  Ugh! — so  I  do.     But  she  is  so  very  thin. 


ALWYN'S  FIRST  WIFE. 


43 


Ah,  she  will  never  live.  She  is  too  good  for 
this  world." 

He  sighed,  and  then  began  talking  of  how 
far  she  had  got  in  Italian,  and  how  in  their 
lessons  this  morning,  Petrarch's  description  of 
Laui'a  had  seemed  to  him  exactly  like  Marjory. 

"Did  you  tell  her  so?" 

"I  don't  remember;  yes,  I  think  I  did.  Why 
not  ?  It  really  was  very  like  her.  I  could  not 
help  it ;  could  I  now  ?" 

I  glanced  up  at  his  fine  earnest  face,  so  free 
from  all  a  young  man's  self-conceit  with  regard 
to  women.  "Oh  no,"  I  said;  yet  my  heart 
sighed  "  Poor  Marjory ! " 

All  love  stories  are  more  or  less  alike ;  it  is 
just  the  same  thing  repeated  in  different  forms 
— very  often  the  same  form — to  the  world's  end. 
The  world  would  weary  of  it  sorely,  save  that 
the  perpetually  throbbing  universal  heart  of  the 
young  generation  attracts  the  history  to  itself, 
and  makes  it  always  new. 

People  who  have  seen  around  them  a  life- 
time of  loves  rise  and  set,  climax,  change,  and 
cease,  sometimes  ended  by  the  will  of  fate, 
sometimes  going  out  like  faint  candles  in  vapor, 
rarely,  if  ever,  growing  to  be  a  light  to  lighten 
the  world,  as  a  happy  and  pure  mutual  love 
ought  always  to  be — learn  to  view  these  things 
differently,  and  it  often  seems  both  idle  and 
rather  mournful  to  write  about  them  at  all. 

This  innocent,  sad  love-tale  of  Marjory  Blair 
I  watched,  week  by  week,  till  the  year  closed. 
No  one  else  seemed  to  notice  it  at  all.  Wheth- 
er or  no  the  parties  concerned  suspected  the 
truth,  of  themselves  or  of  each  other,  it  was 
quite  impossible  to  divine.  Marjory  was  so 
very  quiet,  composed,  and  silent,  that  at  times 
I  was  doubtful  whether  my  tco  anxious  pity 
had  not  exaggerated  the  danger.  Perhaps  she 
was  not  in  love  at  all  ? 

For  Alwyn,  he  went  on  praising  her  to  me 
in  the  most  indefatigable  and  earnest  way  ;  but 
then  he  had  done  the  same,  or  nearly  the  same, 
of  at  least  six  young  women,  all  of  Avhom  he 
warmly  admired,  but  without  loving  a  single 
one. 

I  repeat,  he  was  not  to  blame — I,  his  sister, 
who  he  declared  loved  him  best  and  judged  him 
hardest  of  any  one  alive,  say  so.  He  was  hand- 
some, gay,  ignorant  of  care.  His  was,  in  the 
highest  degree,  the  poetic  eclectic  temperament, 
which  being  exceedingly  sensitive  and  difficult 
of  choice,  is  successively  attracted  by  what  is 
grand  in  one  woman,  rare  in  another,  and  love- 
ly in  a  third,  but  wholly  satisfied  by  none.  It 
is  therefore  set  down  by  the  mere  matter-of- 
fact  half  of  the  world  as  essentially  false  and 
inconstant. 

I  do  not  join  in  that  hue  and  cry.  It  is  con- 
stant to  the  one  inward  truth  of  its  nature — its 
ideal  of  abstract  perfection  constantly  pursued 
and  seldom  found. 

Let  me  not  be  supposed  to  excuse  willful  faith- 
lessness— the  capricious  fancy  that  wearies  of 
an  imaginary  idol  as  soon  as  it  finds  the  least 
flaw  in  it ;  the  selfish  cruelty  which  enjoys  all 


the  sweetness  of  a  pleasant  bond,  yet  evades  its 
responsibilities,  duties,  and  burdens. 

All  that  I  mean  is  to  defend  my  brother  Al- 
wyn, and  all  men  of  his  type,  from  wholesale 
blind  accusations  of  fickleness  and  heartlessness 
in  love.  The  error  is  in  using  the  word  "love" 
at  all,  to  such  mere  dreams  of  the  imagination. 
I  used  to  count  on  my  fingers  Alwyn's  "sweet- 
hearts," and  smile  at  his  fancied  adorations,  as, 
year  by  year,  they  rose  and  sank  like  waves  in 
the  tide.  It  was  only  a  tide  ;  ebbing  and  flow- 
ing ;  I  knew  that  the  gi-eat  deep  sea  of  his  man- 
hood's love  lay  calm  and  still  below  them  all. 

The  question  was  whether  the  time  were  now 
come,  and  the  woman.  Would  Miss  Blair  be 
she? 

I  doubted.  In  the  first  place,  she  was  not 
beautiful  enough  —  a  man  like  Alwyn,  more 
than  most  men,  requires  a  degree  of  absolute 
beauty  in  a  wife.  Poor  Marjory,  with  her  small 
sickly  fiice,  was  often  almost  plain.  Then  she 
changed  so.  A  word  or  look  of  his  would  some- 
times, for  an  hour  or  two,  transfigure  her  into 
another  being  —  a  creature  of  brightness  and 
joy ;  again  another  chance  word,  and  all  the 
light  was  gone  out  of  her ;  she  became  a  pale, 
spiritless,  ordinary  girl. 

At  such  times,  on  going  home,  Alwyn  would 
say  to  me,  "  Really  I  never  saw  a  woman  alter 
like  Miss  Blair.  How  very  plain  she  looked  to- 
night!" 

Poor  little  Marjory ! 

For  my  brother,  he  was  utterl}'  unconscious — 
utterly !  Never  was  there  a  young  man  more 
simple-minded,  more  free  from  self-conceit. 

"I  am  only  a  poor  teacher  of  languages,"  he 
would  say.  ' '  I  can't  marrj^ ;  every  body  knows 
it.  It  will  be  at  least  ten  years  before  I  can 
venture  to  love  any  woman,  therefore  I  am  quite 
safe." 

And  I  truly  think  he  believed  so.  It  never 
crossed  his  mind  that,  from  his  pure  goodness 
and  singleness  of  character,  to  say  nothing  of 
his  other  qualities,  some  unlucky  woman  might 
come  to  love  him. 

Have  I  not  said  enough — I  hope  so  !  to  prove 
unto  any  one,  calmly  and  impartially  viewing 
the  story,  that  no  wrong  could  be  laid  at  Alwyn's 
door  ? 

Thus  the  year  went  round. 


CHAPTER  II. 


Alwtn  and  I  spent  a  rather  dreary  Christ- 
mas. We  knew  not  how  it  was,  but  his  ])upils 
had  fallen  oft",  and  so  had  mine.  Ours  was  a 
thinly  populated  district,  and  I  found  no  new 
children  replacing  the  little  boys  who,  one  after 
the  other,  were  transferred  from  me  to  gram- 
mar and  foundation  schools.  I  speculated  be- 
ginning what  was  always  my  great  aversion,  a 
girl's  boarding-school. 

"But  then  I  should  have  to  get  rid  of  you, 
Alwyn  ?" 


44 


ALAVYN'S  FIRST  WIFE. 


He  looked  surprised,  and  colored  like  a  maid- 
en, when  I  showed  him  how  impossible  it  was 
that  so  good-looking  and  attractive  a  young  man 
could  abide,  as  a  disguised  hawk,  in  a  dovecote 
of  young  ladies. 

But  tliis  vague  idea  of  mine,  foolishly  thrown 
out,  worked  deeper  than  I  dreamed.  He  be- 
came troubled,  restless — the  dull  home  life  grew 
irksome  to  him ;  lie  wanted  to  try  his  fortune 
in  a  wider  sphere. 

Finally,  after  much  argument,  after  looking 
at  our  future  on  every  side,  and  seeing  it  grow 
paler  and  cloudier  as  we  gazed,  one  winter  day, 
when  we  sat  at  home  from  morn  till  eve,  shut 
in  gloomily  by  the  incessant  snow,  he  made  his 
determination. 

It  was  to  go  back  to  Germany,  where  for  a 
year  he  had  once  studied,  and  try  to  settle  there 
permanently,  as  a  teacher  in  one  of  the  uni- 
versities. 

The  pang  of  parting  was  not  small — but  one 
gets  inured  to  pangs.  And  none  could  be  sharp- 
er than  to  see  him  wasting  here  the  prime  of 
his  youth ;  sinking  into  a  mere  idle  dreamer,  if 
nothing  worse.  I  wished  to  see  him  a  man  in  the 
world  of  men.     I  consented  that  he  should  go. 

The  day  after,  tiie  snow  ceased,  and  over  a 
beautiful  white  fairy  world  rose  up  the  first  Jan- 
uary sun. 

"I  will  begin  a  new  life  with  a  new  year," 
said  Alwyn,  as  he  gayly  ate  his  breakfast,  and 
planned  a  journey  into  the  nearest  town,  to  make 
all  arrangements  for  his  departure.  He  would 
be  absent  till  evening. 

"Have  you  forgotten  Miss  Blair  was  to  come 
to  us  on  New- Year's  morning  ?" 

"  I  declare  I  hadi"    He  looked  disappointed. 

"  And  your  pretty  New-Year's  gift  that  you 
took  such  pains  to  get  for  her?" 

"Well,  you  can  give  it,  Charlotte;  it  will  be 
all  the  same." 

"Do  you  think  so?" 

"No;  by-the-by,  not  quite.  Besides,  I  like 
to  see  her  face  when  she  receives  a  present:  it 
is  so  childlike,  with  such  a  wondering  grateful- 
ness in  the  innocent  eyes.  No,"  laying  down 
his  great  coat ;   "  no,  Charlotte,  I  must  stay." 

"As  you  choose." 

"I  wonder,"  said  he,  after  half  an  hour's 
reading  over  the  fire,  "I  wonder  what  Mar- 
jory will  say  to  my  going  away.  I  siiall  miss 
her  very  much  ;  she  has  been  such  a  j)ieasant 
friend."  He  mused  fur  another  five  minutes. 
"But  then  she  will  write.  I  wonder  how  she 
does  write,  by-the-Ijy.  If  there  is  one  thing  I 
like  more  than  another,  it  is  a  real,  iiatural  wo- 
man's letter.  It  is  almost  better  than  conversa- 
tion. Do  you  think  she  will  write  to  me,  Char- 
lotte?" 

"How  can  I  tell,  my  dear?" 

"I  am  afraid  she  will  be  .sorry  to  part:  so 
Fhall  I.  Perhaps,  on  the  whole,  you  liad  bet- 
ter tell  her  instead  of  me.  I  must  not  tliink 
of  these  good-bys  that  are  coming,  or  I  shall 
waver  in  my  purpose,  as  you  sometimes  say  I 
have  a  haiiit  of  doing." 


"Only  in  little  things,  Alwyn." 

In  this — which  was  a  greater  thing  than  it 
seemed,  as  I  well  knew — he  wavered  for  a  good 
hour  at  least.  Finally  he  departed,  leaving  the 
field  open  to  me.  I  saw  the  idea  of  telling 
Marjory  of  his  departure  jjained  him,  nor  did 
he  hesitate  to  show  it.  He  had  a  very  tender 
heart. 

I  sat  and  waited  uneasily.  Of  late  Marjory 
had  got  into  a  habit  of  coming  about  my  little 
house  and  me,  generally  on  the  days  when  t^he 
knew  Ahvyn  was  absent  on  his  rounds  of  teach- 
ing. I  had  become  used  to  see  her  enter,  tim- 
idly lay  aside  her  bonnet  and  shawl,  and  sit 
down  for  a  chat,  just  as  if  she  belonged  to  me. 
She  was  never  very  loving  to  me — always  rath- 
er shy  ;  but  I  felt  she  liked  me  for  myself  indi- 
vidually, with  a  feeling  quite  difterent  from  the 
showers  of  affection  which  Alwyn's  sister  had 
had  the  honor  of  receiving  from  a  great  many 
other  young  ladies,  and  which  the  said  sister, 
with  an  amused  comjilacency,  set  down  at  their 
true  value  accordingly. 

But  I  liked  this  girl,  she  was  so  gentle,  so 
thoroughly  true.  And  if  in  her  half-avowed 
liking  for  me  crept  in  some  tenderer  aljoy — 
why,  that  was  sincere  too.  When  I  saw  it,  it 
only  made  me  smile,  or  sigh.  We  women 
ought  not  to  be  hard  upon  one  another. 

It  was  noon  before  she  came.  I  took  off  her 
bonnet  and  her  wet  shoes  ;  she  had  very  dainty 
little  feet.  I  made  her  put  them  on  my  lap  to 
warm  them,  which  she  long  resisted,  but  finally 
received  the  perhaps  unwonted  fondling  with  a 
blushing,  beaming  smile,  and  sat  chatting  mer- 
rily until  some  sound  in  the  house  made  her 
start  and  slip  into  a  formal  attitude. 

"You  need  not  move;  Alwyn  is  away.  He 
was  obliged  to  go  out  on  business  for  the  whole 
day.     He  hopes  you  will  excuse  him." 

"Oh,  yes." 

"  He  left  this  book  as  a  New-Year's  gift.  He 
would  have  liked  to  have  given  it  to  you  him- 
self, but  thought  I  should  do  it  as  well." 

"Oh,  yes." 

"He  hopes  you  will  read  it  sometimes,  and 
not  forget  what  good  friends  you  and  he  have 
been  all  this  old  year." 

"Oh,  no." 

Her  fingers  could  not  untie  the  string ;  she 
was  trembling. 

"  Supjiose,  my  dear,  we  put  the  parcel  by 
till  you  go  home." 

She  obeyed,  not  unwillingly ;  but  many,  many 
times  I  saw  her  innocent  eyes  turn,  with  a  glad 
light  in  them,  to  the  shelf  where  it  lay.  Some- 
how I  wished  he  had  not  given  it  to  her.  But 
it  was  his  habit.  Half  the  poetry-books  in  the 
neigliborliood  oweil  their  distribution  to  Mr. 
Alwyn  lleid.  However,  Marjory  did  not  knovr 
this. 

We  spent  a  quiet  morning.  She  looked  so 
hapjiy  that  I  could  not  tell  her  any  thing.  I 
felt  all  day  like  a  smiling  executioner  with  a 
dagger  under  his  sleeve.  I  wished  Alwyn  had 
not  chosen  me  to  communicate  the  unpleasant 


ALWYN'S  FIRST  WIFE. 


45 


fact  of  his  departare  for  Germany — too  unpleas- 
ant for  him  to  do  it  himself.  Yet,  perhaps, 
considering  all  things,  it  was  best.  I  was  a 
woman,  and — once — I  had  been  young. 

The  early  gloaming  came  ;  and  all  the  win- 
ter Marjory  was  forbidden  to  be  out  after  dusk. 
I  wrapped  her  delicate  chest  Avell,  and  myself 
put  on  her  little  shoes.  The  executioner-like 
feeling  was  upon  me  stronger  than  ever.  I 
postponed  my  melancholy  duty  till  the  last 
minute,  when — a  poor  substitute  for  Alwyn— 
I  slipped  her  arm  under  mine,  and  saw  her 
home. 

It  was  along  a  field-path  ;  on  every  side,  in 
smooth  white  waves,  the  deep  snow  lay.  There 
was  a  little  bridged  brook  we  had  to  cross,  where 
she  stood  and  looked  down. 

"  How  merrily  the  water  gurgles  on  between 
the  two  shelves  of  ice !  This  stream  never 
wholly  freezes,  your  brother  told  me.  He  talk- 
ed so  beautifully  about  it,  one  day  lately." 

"Did  he?" 

*'  I  wanted  him  to  write  a  poem  on  the  sub- 
ject, and  he  said  he  would.  He  jjromiscd  me 
faithfully  to  finish  his  book,  and  come  over 
and  read  it  to  us  regularly  every  evening  this 
sfiriuLC." 

"Ah,  this  spring!" 

She  looked  up  quickly,  very  tenderly,  in  my 
face.  "Is  anv  thing  amiss  ^\itll  you,  Miss 
Eeid  ?" 

"Amiss,  my  dear?"  I  was  jnitting  her  off, 
when  something  whispered  me  that  now  was 
the  best — the  only  time  to  do  what  I  had  prom- 
ised. And  it  must  be  done.  "Yes,  I  fear  I 
am  rather  dreary." 

"Is  it  about — "  She  stopped,  coloring  in- 
tensely. 

"About  my  school  falling  off?  Well,  part- 
ly ;  partly  about  —  about  Alwyn.  He  is  too 
clever  a  fellow  to  rust  here  in  a  country  village. 
I  wish  he  were  away." 

She  started,  then  reassumed  her  usual  mono- 
syllabic answer,  "Oh,  yes." 

"I  think — it  is  possible — nay,  verj'  probable 
— that  he  will  go  away." 

No  answer.  She  was  leaning  on  the  rail  of 
the  bridge.      Slie  held  it  very  tight  and  firm. 

I  felt  I  must  be  firm,  too.  No  paltering,  for 
present  pity  or  fear  of  present  pain,  with  the 
truth — which  I  k7iew  was  the  truth.  No  un- 
steady holding  of  the  knife — its  .stroke  must  be 
sharp,  swift,  and  keen.     It  was  safest  so. 

"He  has  no  ties  here — none,  he  says.  He 
wishes  to  go  out  into  the  world,  and  make  his 
way  there  for  himself.  I  think  any  friend  of 
Alwyn's  must  be  glad  that  he  should  go.  His 
sister  is,  though  it  will  cost  her  much — much." 

The  little  hand  made  a  slight  motion  toward 
mine,  but  stopjied  half-way.  She  said,  in  a 
low,  carefully  guarded  tone, 

"  It  is  very  hard  for  you.  Will  he  be  absent 
long  ?" 

"  Indefinitely.  He  is  gone  to-day  to  com- 
plete his  plans.  He  thinks  of  proceeding  at 
once  to  Germany." 


"  Oh,  to  Germany  !  It  is  a — a  fine  country, 
Germany.      Shall  we  walk  on,  Miss  lieid  ?" 

"  If  you  please,  my  dear." 

She  did  not  take  my  arm,  but  moved  on 
alone,  with  a  slow  but  unfaltering  step. 

I  was  very  thankful  the  disclosure  was  so  ' 
well  over.  I  would  not  trust  myself  to  any 
more  s))ccch  on  the  subject,  but  went  on  point- 
ing out  the  red  frosty  sky,  the  white  tracery  of 
the  trees,  and  every  thing  that  could  make  a 
conversation. 

She  answered — just  answered,  and  no  more. 

"  Take  care.  Miss  Blair  ;  the  road  is  all  ice 
— you  will  fall." 

"Shall  I?" 

"  Let  me  help  you.     You  shiver." 

"  I  am  so  cold." 

With  one  slight  moan,  she  slipped  from  my 
hold  and  dropped  into  a  snow-drift  in  the  ditch 
bank,  as  white  as  the  snow  that  buried  her. 

I  carried  her  in  my  arms  across  the  field 
home.  She  came  to  herself  just  as  we  reached 
the  farm-gate,  and  insisted  upon  walking. 

"  Uon't  tell  any  body.     It  was  only  the  cold." 

And  then  she  lost  consciousness  again. 
Hours  passed  before  she  spoke  another  word. 

The  doctor  said  it  was  the  shock  of  the  fall 
in  the  snow  acting  ixpon  her  nen-ous  system, 
sensitive  in  the  highest  degree.  She  must  be 
kejit  very  quiet  indeed,  or  he  would  not  answer 
for  the  consequences. 

I  went  home  to  Alwyn  with  a  hea^y  con- 
science. I  felt  as  if  between  us  we  two  were 
conspiring  the  death  of  that  poor  child.  Even 
I — how  wrong  it  was  of  me  to  let  her  come,  to 
let  him  go  to  and  fro,  when  I  might,  perhaps, 
have  found  excuses  to  keep  them  asunder  !  Or 
why  did  I  not  give  some  liints — surely  it  was  in 
the  power  of  a  woman  and  a  sister  so  to  do — to 
save  her,  poor  innocent,  from  building  her  love 
palace  upon  such  shifting  sands  ?  For  such, 
alas  !  I  felt  sure  they  were. 

Still,  I  thought  I  would  sound  Alwyn.  He 
was  so  full  of  his  German  i)lans  that  it  was  mt 
till  tea  was  over  that  he  thought  of  asking  about 
Miss  Blair. 

"  Did  she  like  her  present  ?" 

"  Very  much,  I  believe." 

"  Did  you  tell  her  of  my  going  away  ?  Ho'w 
did  she  receive  the  news  ?" 

"  Very  quietly." 

He  looked  rather  disappointed.  Ah  !  poor 
human  nature.  Alwyn  loved  so  to  have  people 
liking  him- — harmlessly  liking  him,  as  lie  liked 
them — especially  women.  He  had  very  few 
male  friends. 

"  But  surely  she  said  something — some  little 
hint  of  regret  ?  What  passed  between  you  ? 
Tell  me,  word  for  word." 

"I  believe  she  said  '  that  Germany  was  a  fine 
country.'  " 

"  Nothing  more  ?" 

"  Why  should  you  desire  more  ?" 

He  laughed.  "  Oh  !  I  can't  tell ;  only  I  like 
my  friends  to  care  for  me  a  little.  I  thou-ht  she 
did.     Perhaps  I  was  mistaken.     That  is  all." 


46 


AL^^^^^'S  FIRST  WIFE. 


"Alwyn,"  I  said,  looking  earnestly  at  him 
across  the  tea-table,  "do  you  really  wish  Mar- 
jory Blair  to  care  for  you  ?" 

"  In  a  friendly  way — yes  !" 

"In  anv  other  way  ?" 

"No."" 

After  a  silence,  during  which  he  gulped  his 
scalding  tea  and  asked  for  another  cup,  lie  said, 

"  Charlotte,  what  could  put  sucli  a  question 
in  your  head  ?  You  know  I  never  meddle  with 
those  sort  of  things.  I  can  not — I  dare  not — 
'make  love,'  as  the  phrase  goes,  to  any  girl; 
or  if  I  could  and  dared,  Marjory  Bhiir — sweet, 
gentle  creature — is  not  the  girl  for  me." 

"  I  was  sure  of  that." 

"  She  is  too  pure,  too  meek,"  he  continued  ; 
"  I  want  a  woman,  not  an  angel.  I  should  feel 
myself  black  by  the  side  of  her.  Also,  she  is 
so  very  small  and  pale,  and  she  has  just  a  little 
— a  little  red  tinj;e  in  her  luiir.  Couldn't  marry 
a  girl  whose  locks  were  any  thing  but  dark! 
Quite  impossible." 

I  did  not  smile.  I  was  very  restless  and 
miserable.  JNIy  brother  called  me  "rather  cross' 
more  than  once  tliat  evening.  As  for  telling 
him  wliat  had  happened,  the  hours  of  anguish 
I  had  ])asse(l  on  ^larjory's  account,  I  found  it 
simply  impossible. 

It  was  a  real  relief  when  about  nine  o'clock 
the  young  doctor,  Ahvyn's  sole  associate  in  tlie 
village,  came  in  for  a  game  at  chess.  He  had 
been  again  sent  for  to  the  farm,  he  said  ;  Miss 
Ulair  was  very  ill  indeed — dangerously  so. 

Alwyn  sprang  up — -"Charlotte,  what's  this? 
You  never  told  me  she  was  ill." 

"It  was  only  a  fall  she  had — a  slip  in  the 
Bnow,"  said  I,  sullenly. 

"Nay,  more  than  that,  I  suspect,"  obser\'ed 
the  young  doctor.  "  Slie  has  had  a  great  shock 
of  some  kind  —  something  here,  or  perhaps 
here,"  and  lie  touched  successively  his  fore- 
head and  his  left  side,  with  a  suspicious  glance 
at  Alwyn. 

My  brother  did  not  notice  it,  he  was  too 
mucli  grieved. 

"  O  Cliarlottc,  you  should  have  told  me. 
What  can  have  befallen  her  ?  What  sliock  can 
she  have  received?  Poor  gentle  little  soul! 
Toor  dear  Marjory  1" 

"I  dare  say  she  will  be  better  soon,"  said 
the  young  doctor,  witli  an  expressive  smile. 
"  Ccme,  Keid,  we  shall  have  more  chess  ]ilay- 
ing.     I  don't  believe  you  will  go  to  Germany." 

After  that  I  was  quite  prepared  for  the  news 
which  mot  me  on  every  hand  in  our  viUage  next 
day,  that  Miss  Marjory  Bhiir  was  d\  iiig  for  love 
of  my  brother  Alwyn.  In  my  agony  of  remorse 
and  ])ain  I  told,  God  forgive  me!  to  half  a 
dozen  gossips  at  least  half  a  dozen  absolute 
lies. 

I  went  to  sec  the  poor  child  afterward.  Ilcr 
grandmother  received  mc  very  frigidly  indeed. 
.  Marjory  did  not  know  mc  at  all.  She  ke])t  talk- 
ing incessantly  about  the  snows — "the  cold, 
cold  snows" — whispering  now  and  then  in  a 
low,  fond,  frightened  voice  the  ward  "Alwvn." 


I  felt  like  a  guilty  thing  when  her  grand- 
parents took  me  solemnly  into  the  chilly  state 
parlor  and  shut  the  door. 

"I  wish  to  speak  to  you.  Miss  Reid,"  said 
the  old  man.  "Confidentially  it  must  be,  and 
candidly.    Will  you  answer  in  the  same  way  ?" 

"If  possible." 

"  It  is  about  our  poor  child." 

"Our  darling,  our  only  one,"  echoed  the 
grandmother,  wcejiing. 

"We  are  old  folk,  or  we  should  have  been 
wiser.  We  have  found  it  out  now.  It  is  not 
her  fault,  poor  pet !  Though  we  could  have 
wished  things  ditlerent ;  she  might  have  looked 
higher." 

' '  Sir  I"  A  momentary  flash  of  sisterly  haugh- 
tiness, which  was  gone  as  soon  as  I  looked  at 
the  sorrowful  old  coujjle,  and  thought  of  the 
almost  dying  girl  up  stairs. 

"  But  he  is  a  fine  young  fellow,  and,  on  the 
whole,  we  are  content.  She  loves  him  —  her 
words  betra_yed  her  when  slie  did  not  know  what 
she  was  talking  about ;  she  shall  marry  liim  if 
she  likes.  Miss  Reid,  will  you  tell  us  liow  long 
your  brother  has  been  courting  our  Marjory  ?" 

"  I  can  not  tell.     This  is  so  sudden." 

"Perhaps  he  has  not  told  you,"  said  the 
grandmother,  kindly.  ' '  Yet  he  ought — so  good 
a  sister.  And  he  must  be  so  proud  of  being 
chosen  by  our  Marjory." 

I  rose  ;  I  hardly  knew  what  I  was  about.  I 
muttered  something  about  going  home  and  ex- 
plaining all  to-morrow. 

"Yes,  go  tell  him  we  forgive  him.  He  shall 
sec  her  as  soon  as  she  is  better.  Her  old 
grandtather  will  not  have  her  fretting.  Say, 
he  shall  marry  her  at  once,  and  he  need  not 
go  to  Germany." 

Homeward  through  the  snowy  fields  I  ran, 
feeling  drawn  around  me  an  inexplicable  net 
of  sorrow,  and  gloom,  and  wrong. 


CHAPTER  HI. 

"Is  she  very  ill,  Charlotte?" 

"Very  ill,  indeed." 

Alwyn  looked  thoroughly  miserable,  as  lie 
had  done  all  day.  Had  he  shown  his  grief  less, 
or  struggled  against  it  more,  I  would  have  been 
more  satisfied.  As  it  was,  I  felt  to  a  horrible 
degree  that  uncertainty  of  action  in  which  right 
and  wrong  seem  to  change  places,  till  one  hard- 
ly knows  the  one  from  the  other. 

Fate,  or  circumstance,  or  his  own  error,  liad 
led  my  brother  into  a  jjosition  whence  his  next 
movement  must  inevitably  create  misery  and 
wrong  to  some  person — doubtless  to  more  than 
one.  A  choice  only  lay  of  the  lesser  misery — 
the  lesser  wrong. 

W  he  had  then,  or  ever  had  had,  any  prior 
attachmem,  if  his  temperament  had  been  stern- 
er, and  not,  as  I  knew  it  to  be,  inclined  to  love 
every  hiiinan  being  who  cared  for  him,  there 
could  not  be  the  slightest  doubt  that  he  was  not 
bound — in  fact,  it  woukl  liavc  been  an  absolute 


ALWYN'S  FIRST  WIFE. 


47 


sin — to  marry  Marjory  Blair.  As  matters  stood, 
I  wavered.  He  was  fond  and  yielding  in  his  na- 
ture, his  conscience  tender,  his  sense  of  honor 
keen,  and  to  be  loved  was  a  necessity  of  his  ex- 
istence. Besides,  he  would  need  so  much  de- 
votion, so  much  forbearance  throughout  life ; 
safer,  I  thought,  for  him  to  marry  a  woman  who 
loved  him,  than  a  woman  whom  he  loved. 

Whether  mj'  theory  grew  out  of  evidence,  or 
I  found  evidence  to  suit  my  theory,  I  can  hard- 
ly tell,  but  I  reasoned  thus :  No  one  will  ques- 
tion the  fact  that  a  man's  love,  however  pas- 
sionate and  intense,  must,  from  its  very  nature, 
after  murriage  become  calmed  and  settled  down, 
often  temporarily  cooling,  until  the  new  bond, 
which  lias  in  it  more  of  aifectionate  friendship 
than  passion,  is  formed  between  the  pair — this 
bond  which,  once  formed,  endures  forever ; 
while,  on  the  other  hand,  almost  invariably, 
the  wife's  love  grows,  becomes  more  deep,  more 
patient,  more  fond  than  ever  the  girl's  could  be. 
llomance  changes  into  household  tenderness, 
exacting  caprice  is  merged  into  the  humblest 
devotedness.  Out  of  ten  men  who  have  mar- 
ried in  a  state  of  maddest  adoration,  I  would 
engage  to  find,  at  the  end  of  the  second  year, 
at  least  eight  couples  where  the  wife  loved  the 
husband  more  than  the  husband  the  wife. 

I  began  to  question  whether  my  brother 
might  not  do  worse  than  save  from  lasting  sor- 
row the  foolish,  faithful  heart  of  Marjory  Blair. 

"What  are  you  thinking  of?"  said  he  to  me, 
when  for  half  an  hour  I  had  been  pretending  to 
sew  and  he  to  read,  till  on  looking  up  we  found 
it  was  pretense  on  either  side. 

I  paused  a  moment,  then  dashed  at  once  into 
the  honest  truth :  "I  was  thinking  of  poor  Mar- 
jorv." 

'"'So  was  I." 

"What  about  her?'" 

"That  she  must  be  of  even  more  delicate 
constitution  than  I  feared.  Such  a  trivial 
thing — a  mere  slip  in  a  snow-drift- — to  produce 
this  dangerous  illness." 

I  was  silent. 

"Are  you  quite  sure  it  was  nothing  more 
serious  ?  Did  you  not  tell  me  it  was  that,  and 
only  that  ?" 

"No,  I  never  did.  It  would  have  been  tell- 
ing a  falsehood." 

"Charlotte,  you  are  cross  with  me  about 
something." 

"Not  cross  with  you,  only  very  miserable  on 
account  of  you.  Oh,  Alwyn,  why  did  not  na- 
ture make  you  an  ugly,  commonplace,  harmless 
fellow,  like  the  generality  of  mankind?" 

And  putting  back  his  hair,  I  looked  into  his 
noble,  handsome  face,  with  a  vague  sense  of 
pity  for  all  womankind.  The  more  so  as  he 
looked  up  in  real  unconsciousness  of  my  mean- 
ing. One  could  not  but  forgive  him,  for  half 
the  mischief  he  did  sprang  from  his  own  entire 
humility. 

"Don't  talk  nonsense,  Charlotte;  I  am  far 
too  sad  for  that.  Talk  of  poor  Miss  Blair.  How 
soon  will  she  be  herself  again  ?" 


"God  knows!" 

' '  Surely  in  a  week  or  so  she  will  be  well,  at 
at  events.     I  must  see  her  before  I  leave." 

"  Why  so  ?  To  grieve  her,  torture  her,  break 
her  heart  ?  Brother,  you  shall  not.  You  men 
have  no  more  feeling  than  a  stone.  I  would 
give  the  world  if  you  had  never  exchanged  a 
word  with  that  poor  child." 

"Charlotte!" 

"Do  you  know  what  has  come  of  it,  your 
daunderings  up  to  the  farm,  your  Italian  read- 
ings, your  walks  in  green  lanes,  looking  at  the 
moon  ?  I  feared  how  it  would  end — I  saw  it 
coming  weeks  ago." 

"Sister  Charlotte"  (angrilv),  "don't  be  a 
fool." 

' '  I  wish  to  Heaven  I  were !  Would  it  were  all 
my  fancy,  and  no  one  were  to  blame !  She  is 
not — poor,  fond  darling  !  I  don't  know  tliat  you 
are  either.  You  could  not  help  it,  Alwyn.  But 
you  have  done  a  cruel  thing.  You  have  bro- 
ken a  girl's  heart." 

"  I  ? " 

"Now  don't  look  so  astonished  and  innocent. 
You  know  it  too — or  it  is  high  time  you  did.  I 
have  spoken  the  simple  truth.  Her  friends 
asked  me  to  day  '  how  long  my  brother  had  been 
courting  IMarjory  ?' " 

"  I  protest,  I  never  said  a  word  of  love  to  her 
in  my  life  !" 

' '  Foolish  boy,  do  you  think  that  love  is  ex- 
pressed and  won  only  by  words  ?" 

He  hung  his  head. 

"But,  whatever  you  did,  or  whatever  you 
said,  the  case  stands  thus  —  you  have  made 
that  poor  girl's  life  miserable,  and  now  you 
are  going  aw.T,y  and  taking  her  peace  with 
vou.  She  loves  vou  to  the  verv  bottom  of  her 
soul." 

"Loves  me?     Oh,  Charlotte?" 

His  head  dropped  on  the  table  ;  he  turned  as 
pale  as  death. 

We  remained  silent  for  many  minutes.  I 
sewed  on  fast  till  I  could  not  see  for  crying. 

"  God  forgive  me,"  he  said  at  last,  "  I  meant 
no  harm.  What  am  I  that  she  should  care  for 
me?     Poor  Marjory!      Sweet,  gentle  angel!" 

He  actually  wept. 

"  Charlotte,  first  tell  me  all  that  passed." 

I  told  him,  disguising  nothing.  He  was  great- 
ly affected. 

"Oil,  my  unworthiness,  my  unworthiness ! 
To  make  so  many  people  miserable.  What  a 
wretch  I  must  have  been!" 

I  tiied  to  comfort  him,  but  the  case  was  too 
clear.  He  must  have  erred  in  some  degree,  per- 
haps more  than  I  knew,  or  a  modest,  shy  maid- 
en like  Marjory  would  never  have  so  blindly 
thrown  her  heart  away.  Also,  other  obscr\'ers 
would  never  have  been  so  deceived  as  to  the  re- 
lation existing  between  them. 

Still  he  had  done  no  more,  in  faci;  much  less, 
than  hundreds  of  young  men  do,  and  pass  un- 
blamed  through  the  world,  while  the  foolish 
young  women  are  only  laughed  at.  But  his 
sensitive  conscience  exaggerated  the  folly  into 


48 


ALWYN'S  FIRST  WIFE. 


the  blackest  crime.  lie  was  overwhelmed  with 
remorse. 

'•Charlotte,  tell  me,  what  must  I  do  ?  How- 
can  I  atone  ?  If  the  most  complete,  heart-brok- 
en—" 

"Your  broken  heart  will  not  exactly  heal 
hers." 

"Do  you  think  hers  will  never  heal?  Do 
women  never  get  over  these — these  things  ?" 

"Get  over!  as  a  horse  leaps  a  hedge,  either 
falls  staked  in  the  middle  or  limps  for  life  after- 
ward. Oh  yes,  certainly  they  get  over  it.  It 
is  a  case  of  kill  or  cure,  according  to  the  pa- 
tient's strength.  For  my  part,  I  think  poor  lit- 
tle Marjory  will  be  returned  among  the  '  killed.' " 

"Oh,  husli !  Sister,  you  ought  not  to  speak 
in  that  light,  unfeeling  manner" — (unfeeling  ? 
I  ?)  "  What  should  I  —what  can  I  do  ?  Ought 
I  to — to  marry  her?" 

"Ask  your  own  heart  that  question." 

I  left  him,  went  to  lock  the  house  and  dis- 
miss our  maid  .Mary's  jo,  who  was  courting  as- 
siduously by  the  kitchen  fire.  How  much  sim- 
pler and  happier  these  affairs  are  often  carried 
on  in  kitchens  than  parlors ! 

"Alwyn,  take  your  candle ;  it  is  time  for  bed." 

"  Sister,  come  here.  Give  me  some  helj) — 
advice.     I  feel  half  crazy." 

I  came,  smoothed  his  hot  forehead  and  kissed 
him.  My  poor  boy !  He  was  paying  dearly 
for  all  his  follies. 

"Tell  me,  Alwyn,  did  you  ever  for  any 
moment  feel  a  spark  of  love,  not  mere  senti- 
mental friendship,  but  downright  love,  for  that 
gentle  creature,  whom  many  men  would  really 
adore  ?" 

"  Would  they  ?  Yes,  I  know  it.  At  times, 
even  I  have  fancied — but  then  I  smothered  the 
feeling  down.  I  dared  not  love,  you  know. 
And  to  think  of  her  loving  me — me  that  am  not 
worthy,  not  half  worthy,  of  a  girl  like  her!" 

"You  might  grow  worthier.  Slie  might  help 
you  to  concpicr  your  faults  and  become  a  noble 
man.  You  may  never  in  your  whole  life  find 
such  love  again,  and  from  such  a  woman." 

"I  feel  that." 

"Arc  you  quite  sure  that,  honoring  and  lik- 
ing her,  you  do  not  in  some  vague  fashion  love 
her?" 

"  As  a  friend,  a  companion,  a  comforter,  yes ; 
as  my  wife,  no!" 

"  Then  she  had  better,  ay,  and  if  she  knew  it 
she  would  rather  a  thousand  times,  suffer  any 
anguish— struggle  witii  it— beat  it  down— out- 
live it — or,  if  that  may  not  be — die  of  it — than 
live  and  be  married  to  you." 

I  took  up  my  candle  and  went  to  bed. 

It  was  two  o'clock  before  I  lieard  Alwyn  quit 
the  parlor  and  go  up  stairs.  As  he  passed  my 
room  I  called  him. 

He  answered,  opened  the  door  and  stood  a 
minute  outside.  He  had  a  f)alcr,  more  reso- 
lute, and  calmer  face  than  I  ever  saw  him  wear. 

"Do  you  want  any  thing,  Charlotte?" 

"Yes — no.  Alwyn,  dear,  what  time  do  you 
wish  to  breakfast  ?" 


"  Early.  I  am  going  to  London.  Probably 
shall  be  away  a  week.  Meanwhile  will  you 
send  me  news  of — the  farm,  everv  day?" 

"I  will." 

"And  you  will  manage  to  let  them  know 
that  I  am  not — at  least  not  yet — going  to  Ger- 
many ?" 

"Thank  Heaven  for  that !      Yet,  Alwyn — "  ^ 

But  he  had  closed  the  door  and  vanished. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

Two  days  after  he  wrote  me  a  long  letter, 
full  of  tenderness. 

He  said,  ' '  he  ought  to  be  grateful  everlast- 
ingly for  the  love  of  two  such  women  as  my- 
self and  Marjory.  That  he  would  try  to  de- 
serve and  keep  both  to  the  end  of  his  days." 

"He  should  not  be  able  to  live  with  me 
again,"  he  added,  "  having  got  employment  in 
London,  which  would  at  least  keep  him  above 
want ;  but  he  would  try  to  visit  me  as  often  as 
was  jiracticable." 

For  what  had  passed  between  him  and  me  on 
that  imhajjpy  evening  (he  mentioned  th'e  date), 
he  begged  me  never  to  reveal  it  to  any  human 
being.  "He  had  quite  made  up  his  mind  now. 
She  was  a  noble  creature,  worthy  of  all  love. 
She  should  never  know  to  her  dying  day  that  he 
had  married  her  from  gratitude.'" 

The  last  sentence  was  written  on  a  half- 
sheet  ;  his  letters  were  always  careless  and  frag- 
mentary. 

So  my  brother  would  be  married.  Of  what 
had  been  all  my  own — I  should  henceforth  have 
only  a  part.  Of  all  his  many  confidences  in  me 
this  must  necessarily  be  the  last,  or  nearly  the 
last.  For  the  future,  himself  and  all  belonging 
to  him  must  be  shared  with  her,  who  had  the 
deepest,  tendcrest,  most  solemn  right  to  him 
and  to  all  his  secrets. 

But  there  was  one  secret  which,  as  he  said, 
must  be  kcjit  from  her  forever — one  trust  which 
must  forever  remain  mine,  or  rather  kej)t  faith- 
fully and  silently  between  my  brother  and  me. 
To  no  conceivable  chance  must  be  left  the  pos- 
sibility of  Marjory's  finding  out  "that  he  had 
married  her  from  t/rati/ude." 

I  was  a  lone  woman.  Any  accident  happen- 
ing to  me  would  leave  all  my  pajiers  in  the 
hands,  and  open  to  the  inspection  of — my  only 
brotlier  hitherto — now,  of  my  brother's  wife — or 
betrothed  wife. 

Being  of  a  nervously  cautious  temperament, 
I  never  like  to  leave  any  thing  that  must  be 
done,  undone  for  a  single  day.  That  very 
night  I  determined  to  look  through  Alwyn's  ac- 
cidental letters  for  the  ))ast  year,  and  destroy 
all  which  bore  the  slightest  reference  to  Miss 
Blair. 

This  entailed  considerable  sacrifice.  Yet  his 
letters — and  he  wrote  many — were  beautiful  in 
themselves,  and  I  had  been  used  to  keep  every 
scrap  of  his  writing — naturally  precious  to  me. 


ALWYN'S  FIRST  WIFE. 


49 


So  I  resolved  on  not  burning  the  whole,  but 
merely  cutting  out  passages  here  and  there — 
especially  tite  passage.  Having  done  so,  and, 
as  I  believed,  seen  it  safely  in  aslies  under  the 
grate,  I  felt  easier  in  my  mind. 

The  remainder  of  the  lad's  dear  letters,  many 
of  which  he  had  written  to  me  quite  in  his  boy- 
hood, I  tied  up,  not  without  some  natural  emo- 
tion, which  rather  hurried  my  fingers  and  blind- 
ed my  eyes,  and  put  the  packet  by  against  the 
time  when  my  brother  and  his  wife  would  have 
the  examining  of  the  papers  of  mc — the  "dear 
sister  departed." 

I  sent  Alwyn  daily  tidings  of  Miss  Blair  ;  but 
in  one  thing  I  acted  contrary  to  his  desires. 
Knowing  him,  perhaps,  better  than  he  knew 
himself,  I  thought  it  safest  to  say  nothing  at  the 
farm  about  him. 

Marjory  slowly  recovered.  By  the  week's 
end  she  was  able  to  sit  up  and  be  carried  down 
stairs.  No  one  talked  to  her  concerning  her 
sudden  illness,  or  even  mentioned  my  brother's 
name.  But  she  saw  me  about  her  continually, 
tending  her  and  watching  over  her,  as  if  with  a 
sort  of  right.  She  seemed  to  feel  it  and  be 
glad. 

Yet  there  was  in  her  a  great  change— a  quiet 
recognizing  of  her  inward  wound,  and  setting 
herself  to  meek  endurance  of  the  same.  The 
struggle  was  altogether  silent.  If  it  lasted 
long,  it  would,  I  foresaw,  speedily  destroy  the 
frail  tabernacle  of  such  a  loving  spirit,  which 
loved  the  more  intensely  from  its  total  unself- 
ishness and  its  want  of  that  useful  quality  called 
Pride. 

She  was  one  of  those  fortunate  beings  who 
find  it  "not  so  difficult  to  die." 

On  Sabbath  afteraoon,  when  all  the  house 
was  quiet,  she  came  down  into  the  parlor,  and 
sat  reading  her  Bible ;  then  leaned  back  mus- 
ing, with  her  hand  on  a  bunch  of  snowdrops, 
the  first  out  of  my  garden  borders.  She  looked 
as  frail  and  fair  as  they. 

All  of  a  sudden,  without  giving  any  notice 
of  his  approach,  and  so  quietly  that  the  grand- 
parents were  not  even  roused  from  their  doze 
on  either  side  of  the  fire,  my  brother  walked 
into  the  room. 

He  was  a  great  deal  more  agitated  than  Mar- 
jory. After  the  first  minute  she  sat  calm  in 
her  chair,  and  answered  his  questions  about 
her  health  in  the  most  ordinary  way,  as  in  his 
many,  many  visits  beforetime.  It  is  astonish- 
ing what  even  the  weakest  of  women  can  do 
when  need  compels. 

Mrs.  Blair  woke,  looked  pleased,  and  asked 
him  to  stay  to  tea.  Alwyn  staid.  He  was  a 
trifle  less  gay  than  his  wont,  but  there  was 
about  his  manner  a  tender  repose  infinitely  more 
attractive. 

He  paid  very  little  formal  attention  to  Mar- 
jory; only  I  saw  him  earnestly  looking  at  her 
•ometimes,  at  which  she  would  start,  and  grow 
the  color  of  a  rose. 

After  tea,  Mrs.  Blair  asked  me  to  come  and 
we  the  chickens — chickens  in  Januarvl — but  I 
D 


humored  the  open  ruse,  and  coaxed  the  old  man 
after  us  to  the  kitchen  fire. 

"We  must  leave  the  young  folk  together, 
you  know,  Miss  Reid,"  said  the  grandparents. 

It  was  a  very,  very  long  hour,  and  I  do  not 
remember  in  the  least  what  the  worthy  old 
couple  talked  to  me  about. 

Later,  the  farmer  obser\-ed,  with  a  chuckle, 
that  he  was  sure,  if  ever  so  much  in  love,  the 
young  folk  must  want  their  supper,  and  some- 
body ought  to  summon  them.  "Do  vou  go, 
Miss  Reid." 

I  went,  previously  making  an  ingenious  clat- 
ter at  the  handle  of  the  parlor  door. 

Idle  precaution !  My  brother,  who  was  sit- 
ting with  his  arm  round  Marjory's  waist,  did 
not  remove  it  when  I  entered.  He  testified  no 
annoyance  at  my  intrusion,  no  shyness  at  the 
fond  attitude  in  which  I  found  them.  Alas  I 
he  was  doing  only  that  which  it  was  his  duty 
to  do. 

"  Come  here  !  Nay,  don't  shrink,  dear  Mar- 
jor}^  Charlotte,  here  is  your  sister.  Take  her, 
and  love  her  always." 

The  young  betrothed  ran  into  my  bosom,  and 
wept  out  her  happy  heart  there. 

Poor  Marjory ! 


CHAPTER  V. 


Thet  were  married  early  in  the  summer,  and 
went  to  live  in  London.  Marjory  had  a  liitle 
fortune  of  her  own  ;  but  my  brother,  through  tlie 
situation  he  had  obtained,  was  sufficiently  inde- 
pendent to  have  married  without  it.  They  be- 
gan life  prosperously  enough. 

Both  wished  me  to  live  witb  them  ;  but  I  be- 
lieve this  is  usually  a  great  mistake  :  that  hus- 
band and  wife  are  better  beginning  life  alone 
together.  So  I  kept  firmly  to  my  school : 
though  many  a  time,  when  the  noisy  little  lads 
were  gone,  I  sat  by  my  still  fireside  and  thought 
of  theirs. 

Often  I  used  to  get  Maijory's  letters.  They 
were  very  frank  and  free.  She  was  freer  with 
me  even  than  with  her  husband.  She  lovetl 
him  so,  it  made  her  afraid  of  him. 

The  honeymoon  letters  were  as  happy  as  a 
bird  singing  in  a  Ma3'-bush.  He  was  so  kiitd 
and  so  tender  over  her,  she  said :  almost  like  a 
mother  or  a  sister.  He  watched-her  every  step ; 
it  made  her  often  wicked  enough  to  feel  glad 
she  was  not  strong,  that  she  might  have  his  fond 
care  perpetually  around  her.  As  for  the  joy  of 
being  near  him,  doing  little  things  for  him, 
knowing  that  she  utterly  and  entirely  belonged 
to  him,  now  and  forever — there  could  be  no- 
thing like  it  in  this  world  ! 

Love  !  —  that  incomprehensible,  wonderful 
thing,  intangible  as  air,  a  mere  modicum  of 
which  suffices  to  some  excellent,  cold-blooded 
creatures,  but  which  to  others  is  the  sole  atmos- 
phere in  which  they  live  and  move,  without 
which  they  suffocate  and  die — poor  Marjory ; 


50 


ALWYN'S  FIRST  WIFE. 


love  was  to  her  the  very  breath  of  life.  Beyond 
it  was  nothingness. 

It  is  a  mournful  thing,  seeing  we  are  not  yet 
angels,  whose  sole  existence  is  love,  and  that 
we  have  not  yet  arrived  at  that  angelic  develop- 
ment which  is  wholly  satisfied  with,  and  absorbed 
in,  the  Love  Divine  ;  it  is,  I  say,  a  very  mourn- 
ful thing  when  any  human  being  is  constituted 
thus. 

At  Christmas-time  Alwyn  wrote  to  me,  "  Sis- 
ter, you  must  come."  So  I  packed  up  my  trunk 
for  a  month,  and  went. 

It  was  the  oddest  thing  imaginable  for  me  to 
be  knocking  at  my  brother's  own  door,  and  to 
have  to  inquire  in  a  formal  manner  for  "Mr. 
Rcid."  Neither  of  them  knew  the  precise  hour 
of  my  coming;  so  I  appeared  at  tlie  new  house 
as  a  stranger.  It  was  about  five  :  their  dinner 
hour.  I  saw  the  cloth  laid  as  I  passed.  From 
the  drawing-room  floor  a  figure  came  fluttering 
— nay,  flying  down. 

"Ahvyn!  you  are  in  capital  time  to-day." 

Then  seeing  me,  the  little  mistress  of  the 
house  discovered  her  mistake.  Her  sisterly 
welcome  was  very  fond — tearfully  so. 

"  I  am  sure — if  we  had  known — I  am  so  sor- 
ry Alwyn  is  not  here  to  meet  you." 

"Never  mind;  I  dare  say  he  will  be  home 
in  a  minute." 

"Oh,  yes!"     Her  old  monosyllables. 

She  brightened  up,  and  busied  herself  about 
me  in  a  thousand  ways,  as  if  she  could  not  suf- 
ficiently impress  upon  me  the  sweet  fact  that 
now,  and  for  always,  I  had  got  a  sister. 

It  was  sweet — there  could  be  no  doubt  of  it. 

Sweet  to  have  her  flitting  round,  insisting  on 
doing  twenty  little  things  that  I  never  let  any 
body  do  for  me  before  ;  to  feel  that  I  had  a  right 
to  her  love  and  care — that  she  was  my  own  prop- 
erty, my  sister — my  Alwyn's  wife.  Then  we 
came  and  sat  down  by  the  drawing-room  fire, 
and  I  admired  the  pretty  house  most  indefati- 
gably.  » 

Nevertheless,  conversation  paused,  flagged, 
sank  into  that  lull  which  always  oppresses  those 
closely  uzited,  who,  meeting  after  a  long  ab- 
sence, during  which  much  has  happened,  have 
so  many  things  to  say  that  they  can  not  say 
one. 

Marjory's  eyes  wandered  continually  to  the 
clock  on  the  mantle-piece. 

"You  must  not  mind  it,  thou^^h,  Charlotte; 
it  is  always  too  fast.  Those  pretty  French 
clocks  rarely  go  well.     But  Alwyn  liked  it.     He 


He  has  a  perfect  passion 


ka.s  exquisite  taste 

"He  always  had. 
.*br  the  beautiful." 

"Oh,  yes!" 

.Just  the  faintest  shadow  passed  over  her  face, 
making  me  vexed  at  the  remark  I  had  inno- 
cently made. 

Mrs.  Keid — how  strange  the  name  seemed — 
was  many  degrees  further  frum  being  beautiful 
tiian  Maijory  Blair.  London  iiir  did  not  suit 
her — Bhe  was  grown  paler  than  ever.  Dark  cir- 
cles underneath  tlieni  seemed  almost  to   take 


away  the  light  of  her  soft,  dove-like  eyes — the 
:  only  really  pretty  feature  she  had.  She  looked 
1  much  older  than  before  her  marriage. 
:  When  seeing  me  gaze  earnestly  at  her,  she 
;  asked  me  with  a  smile,  "  if  I  thought  her  alter- 
I  ed?"  I  was  very  much  puzzled  what  to  reply. 
"  Come,  you  must  be  hungry,"  she  said,  after 

listening  and  starting  at  every  foot  in  the  street. 

"  Shall  we  ring  for  dinner?" 
I      Of  course  I  said  no ;  but  we  shared  between 

j  ' 

j  us  a  piece  of  bread,  and  sat  quiet. 

More  weary  waiting,  with  fragments  of  talk 
'  between,  till  a  church-dock  near  struck  loudly 
seven.     Then  Marjory  rose. 
I       "  Some  business  must  have  detained  my  hus- 
band.    He  is  sure  to  be  at  home  before  we  have 
done  dinner." 

But  she  ate  with  a  sick,  sad  face,  and  could 
hardly  keep  up  the  ordinary  civilities  of  the  ta- 
ble. 

"Is  Alwyn  often  late?" 

' '  Not  oftener  than  he  can  help.  He  is  much 
engaged,  and  his  occupation" — (he  was  secreta- 
ry to  a  fashionable  author) — "leads  him  into  a 
great  deal  of  acquaintance.  He  is  so  much  ad- 
mired— you  can't  think — in  every  circle  into 
which  he  goes." 

"  Do  you  go  with  him  ?" 

For  I  had  heard  somewhere  of  the  difference 
in  this  respect  between  literary  men  and  liter- 
ary men's  wives. 

"  Sometimes  I  do — when  my  health  allows. 
He  is  verv  careful  over  me — too  careful,  almost. 
Ah!     Hark!" 

His  quick  run  up  the  steps,  I  knew  it  well! 
his  loud,  ra})id  knock.  The  wife  was  another 
creature  in  a  moment. 

"Is  that  you,  my  dear?  Keally  Maijory, 
why  will  you  open  the  street-door?" 

He  came  in,  threw  down  his  hat,  shook  back 
his  curls.  He  was  the  same  fine  handsome  fel- 
low as  ever — or  handsomer.  She  was  a  mere 
pale  shadow  by  his  side. 

"  Bless  my  soul — Charlotte !  Why,  Marjory, 
what  a  pleasant  surprise  !" 

"Yes,  indeed.  We  had  begun  dinner,  you 
see.     She  has  been  here  ever  since  five." 

"What  a  pity!  I  would  have  come  homo 
half  an  hour  earlier  had  I  known." 

"I  knew  you  would." 

Marjory,  thou  wert  truly  of  the  angel  kind ! 
For  worhls  I  could  not  have  uttered  those  four 
words  with  that  perfect  smile. 

We  sat  round  the  fire,  my  brother,  my  sister, 
and  I.  Alwyn  was  unfcignedly  glad  to  see  nic. 
Wliatever  miiiht  be  the  vagaries  of  his  imagin- 
ation, and  the  attachments  jiertaining  thereto, 
his  attcction  for  me  was  always  firm  and  sure. 

He  told  me  of  all  his  phuis,  aims,  and  hopes, 
which  had  t.akcn  a  far  wider  range  within  the 
last  year.  His  marriage  had,  unconsciously  to 
liimself,  licen  the  nnituring  of  his  character,  the 
stepping-stone  to  his  future — a  future  which  to 
me  and  his  fond  wife  seemed  limitless. 

Marjory  did  not  talk  much.  She  sat  idling 
over  some  light  sewing,  often  laid  down,  that 


ALWYN'S  FIRST  WIFE. 


51 


from  under  Iier  shading  hand  she  might  look 
across  the  table  at  Ahvyn,  with  a  fullness  of  ad- 
miring love.  She  did  not  hover  about  him,  or 
try  to  win  from  him  those  little  attentions  which 
young  wives  rejoice  in  and  expect ;  it  seemed  as 
if  she  neither  were  used  to  nor  required  them. 
His  mere  presence  in  the  room  was  sufficient  to 
her ;  she  desired  no  more. 

I  never,  save  this  once,  saw  an  instance  of  a 
creature  solely  wrapped  up  in  another  human 
being,  whose  love  was  too  humble  to  be  exact- 
ing, too  self-existent  to  burden  the  recipient. 

Alwyn  was  very  kind  and  tender  to  her, 
•with  the  sort  of  tenderness  which  springs  from 
habit.  He  would  go  on  talking  for  hours  in  his 
brilliant,  charming  manner,  without  seeming 
conscious  of  her  at  all ;  but  whenever  he  wanted 
any  thing,  it  was  "  jMarjory — wherc's  Marjory  ?" 

On  the  whole,  if  I  had  been  a  person  satisfied 
with  the  outer  surface  of  things,  I  should  have 
said  they  were  a  very  happy  married  couple, — 
happy  in  the  sort  of  calm  content,  which  gener- 
ally comes  after  ten  years  of  union  ;  a  content 
which  ten  more  years  would  probably  add  to 
rather  than  diminish. 

But  for  that  wild  dream  of  youth,  the  perfect 
love  which  of  two  makes  one  flesh,  the  satisfied 
mutual  love  which  in  riper  years  becomes  more 
and  more  a  vital  necessity  of  existence,  which, 
receiving  as  much  as  it  gives,  is  a  rest,  and 
stay,  and  blessing,  beyond  any  other  blessing 
which  earth  can  afford  :  if  Maijory  ever  thought 
of  or  longed  for  this,  God  help  her ! 

These  were  my  meditations  when  I  lay  down 
to  sleep  for  the  first  night  in  my  brother's  house. 

The  next  night  slumber  was  forbidden  to  my 
eyelids.  Poor,  simple,  countrified  me !  I  was 
plunged  into  the  very  midst  of  that  whirling 
Maelstrom — a  London  literarj-  party. 

It  was  a  gathering  of  lions  at  a  great  lion's 
house.  A  lion  of  twenty  j'ears  ago,  when  they 
roared  much  louder  tlian  they  do  now,  when 
they  used  to  meet  exclusively  among  themselves 
for  the  express  purpose  of  using  their  lungs, 
and  proving  how  much  greater  they  were  than 
the  minor  beasts. 

I  never  much  liked  literary  people  ;  they  talk 
so  fast  and  so  continually  about  themselves. 
They  seem  to  think  it  is  the  grandest  thing  in 
the  world  to  handle  a  pen,  to  write  about  vir- 
tues instead  of  showing  them,  to  narrate  noble 
lives  instead  of  living  them.  Alas !  I  fear  me 
the  former  is  often  supposed  to  preclude  the 
necessity  of  the  latter. 

Thus  I  thought,  when  Alwyn  for  the  first 
hour  kept  me  on  his  arm,  bless  him !  he  was 
not  the  least  bit  ashamed  of  his  countrified  old 
sister;  pointing  out  to  me  one  after  another, 
the  clever  people,  the  celebrated  people,  the 
people  who  were  hung  out  as  lanterns  in  the 
world ;  adding  to  each  description  various  bio- 
graphical or  personal  comments,  frequently  so 
caustic  and  severe  that  they  made  me  regard 
him  amazed,  and  caused  Marjory's  half  remon- 
strating, half  pathetic  whisper,  "Oh,  Alwyn!" 

After  a  time  he  left  us  to  take  care  of  one 


another,  and  we  watched  him,  brilliant  among 
the  most  brilliant,  noticed  even  among  the  most 
noticeable,  in  the  very  centre  of  tlie  throng. 
Marjory's  eyes  followed  him  continually  with 
the  fondest,  proudest  gaze.  Few  people  came 
to  speak  to  her,  indeed  no  one  would  have 
guessed  she  was  his  wife ;  she  sitting  in  a  cor- 
ner with  her  pale  face  and  plain  high  silk  dress 
— her  wedding-dress,  the  boast  of  our  village 
dressmaker,  but  quite  old-fashioned  here. 

' '  Marjory,  my  dear,  how  tired  you  look ! 
Had  we  not  better  go  home?" 

"Hush!  he  likes  to  stay  late.  Don't  men- 
tion such  a  thing." 

But  I  did  mention  it,  being  a  very  daring  and 
determined  person,  and  not  in  the  least  afraid 
of  my  brother.  Why  should  I  ?  He  was  but 
flesh  and  blood.  His  wife  and  his  sister  need 
not  be  always  his  humble,  obedient  slaves.  So 
I  represented  the  case. 

' '  Go  home,  my  dear  Charlotte  ?  To  be  sure 
I  will,  immediately.  She  is  not  ill,  I  hope,  poor 
child?  She  is  too  delicate  for  these  crowded 
rooms,  I  must  go  alone  next  time.  Come, 
Marjory. " 

He  led  her  out,  leaning  on  his  arm.  They 
could  hardly  get  through  the  throng,  he  was  so 
beset  by  acquaintances.  She  seemed  quite  a 
stranger  to  most  of  them. 

"Who  is  she?"  I  heard  asked  behind  them. 

"Only  Keid's  wife." 

' '  What  a  fine  clever  fellow  he  is !  How 
could  he  marry  such  an  ordinary  little  thing!" 

By  the  start  Alwyn  gave,  by  the  deep  flush 
on  Marjory's  cheek,  I  think  both  the  young 
couple  heard  that  comment.  He  answered  it  by 
the  most  pointed  and  tender  care  over  her  until 
we  reached  home.     There  he  said, 

"Now,  Charlotte,  I  put  my  wife  into  your 
charge.  I  am  going  back,  just  for  one  half 
hour." 

He  did  not  return  till  long,  long  after  mid- 
night,   t 

A  little  figure  all  in  white  glided  i)ast  my 
half-open  door,  and  let  him  in. 

"I  could  not  help  it,  Marjory,"  he  was  say- 
ing, as  they  repassed  up  stairs.  "I  would  not 
have  kept  you  sitting  up  on  any  account,  if  I 
had  only  thought  of  it.  But  then  they  were  so 
very  entertaining." 


CHAPTER  VI. 


It  is  strange,  how  differently  strikes  on  us 
the  atmosphere  of  diflFerent  households.  Some 
are  so  warm,  fresh,  and  clear,  we  bathe  in  them 
as  in  the  light  of  a  May-day.  In  others,  the  air 
hangs  heavy  and  close,  as  if  always  threatening 
a  stprm.  Of  many  the  atmosphere  is  still,  cold, 
and  pale ;  you  can  neither  stir  it  to  a  tempest, 
nor  brighten  it  into  sunshine.  You  walk  in 
it,  and  feel  that  if  you  lived  there  you  would 
pine  and  ^\-ithcr  like  a  plant  in  a  dark  room, 
which  barely  exists,  and  can  never  either  blos- 
som or  grow. 


52 


AL^^'YN'S  FIRST  WIFE. 


This  was  somewhat  the  impression  that  Al-  | 
wj-n's  home  made  on  me.  Ay,  even  thouj^'h  it  j 
was  a  very  beautiful,  kind,  quiet  home,  with  no 
disturbing  element,  but  there  was  little  brif^ht- 
ness  in  it ;  no  laughing  round  breakfast  tables, 
no  running  to  and  fro,  busy,  merry,  meeting  at 
intervals  for  a  few  minutes  of  cheerful  (.hat, 
and  ending  by  a  fireside  circle,  into  which  all 
the  cares  and  joys  of  the  day  are  brought, 
thrown  in  the  midst,  and  danced  round,  till  all 
mingle  haiijiily  together,  and  the  veriest  witch's 
caldron  of  jiain  becomes  a  wholesome  family 
brew  of  sweetest  savor. 

We  had  no  such  circle  ;  my  brother  was  al- 
most always  out  of  evenings. 

I  think — and  my  thinkings  spring  out  of  some 
experience — that  one  of  tlie  saddest  descriptions 
one  can  give  of  a  household — a  virtuous  and  not 
disunited  household — is,  that  the  master  of  it 
"generally  goes  out  of  an  evening." 

Marjory,  wlicn  I  hinted  a  little  surjirise  at  his 
so  doing,  said  decidedly — very  decidedly  for  her 
—  "that  it  was  London  ways.  All  clever  men 
did  the  same,  and  Alwyn's  friends  were  most 
of  them  celebrities.  She  was  quite  accustomed 
to  sit  alone  of  an  evening.     She  rather  liked  it."' 

Of  course  I  made  no  further  remark. 

So  she  and  I  used  to  sit  together,  five  nights 
out  of  the  seven,  occujjied  in  our  women's  work 
and  desultory  women's  talk — she  seemed  to  talk 
less  than  ever.  But  there  was  always  a  blank, 
a  want  of  the  cheerful  face  we  both  loved  best, 
of  the  voice  that,  reading  or  talking,  would  have 
been  sweeter  to  us  than  any  music  in  the  world. 

I  remained  a  month  in  my  brother's  house, 
and  came  home  with  a  vague  feelin;^  that  there 
was  much  satisfaction  in  living  alone  in  the 
country  and  teaching  school. 

When  I  left,  Marjory  hung  about  me  affec- 
tionately. I  said,  "  liemeniber,  if  you  are  at 
all  ill  or  unhappy,  you  must  come  down  to  your 
sister,  my  dear.     Mind  that  she  does,  Alwyn." 

JNIarjory's  eyes  turned  to  her  husband,  who 
had  been  particularly  tender  over  her  tlic  whole 
of  that  day,  for  slic  was  weak  and  ailing  this 
winter  time.  "I  unliapi)y?"  she  answered, 
with  a  smile  of  the  fondest  incredulity.  "You 
must  not  wait  for  that,  Charlotte,  or  you  will 
never  see  your  sister." 

So  I  hoped  that  an  old  maid's  notion  of  mar- 
ried life  was  a  ridiculous  Utojiia,  and  that  tiicy 
were  really  a  very  liappy  couple  after  all. 


In  the  spring  I  received  from  my  sister-in-law 
a  parcel  of  little  clothes.  She  said  she  was  too 
ill  to  make  them  herself.  I  made  them  for  her, 
nearly  all ;  sewing  late  and  early,  sometimes 
merrily,  oftcner  still  with  tears. 


At  midsummer,  on  the  brcaking-up  day, 
when  my  little  pujiils  were  making  such  a  clat- 
ter that  1  could  hardly  hear  my  own  voice,  I  re- 
ceived a  letter  from  Marjory. 

It  contained  more  of  herself  than  her  letters 
uguaily  did.  They  were  generally  all  "Alwyn 
— Alwyn,"  from  bi-ginning  to  end. 


She  said  her  husband  was  away  on  a  short 
journey,  and  she  felt  very  lonely.  She  dreaded 
more  particularly  a  longer  absence  he  was  about 
to  make  ;  a  tour  in  Switzerland  with  his  patron, 
the  titled  author,  who,  she  added,  found  it  utter- 
ly impossible  to  travel  witliout  the  agreeable 
comi)anionship  of  Alwyn  Reid.  And  it  would 
be  a  great  treat  to  Alwyn  himself.  Meantime 
she  wanted  to  come  "  home"  (which  word  was 
carefully  erased,  and  "  to  the  farm"  substituted), 
to  be  with  her  grandparents  and  me. 

She  came.  Alwyn  brought  her.  The  samo 
afternoon  they  appeared  at  my  wicket-gate,  jusk 
as  they  used  to  appear  when  he  went  and  fetched 
her  over  to  take  tea  with  us. 

That  time  might  have  been  yesterday,  so  like 
all  seemed.  The  same  yellow  ribes  was  in  flow- 
er against  the  wall— the  same  standard  rosc-tre?, 
large  white  roses  with  wa.xen  petals,  of  which  he 
once  gave  her  one,  saying  it  was  the  very  picture 
of  herself. 

She  stood  and  gazed,  evidently  with  an  over- 
flowing heart. 

"  Oh,  Alwyn  !  do  you  remember?" 

"Remember  what,  my  dear?" 

"Every  thing.  In  our  courting  diij-s,  you 
know." 

He  siglied,  half  sadly. 

"I  fear  I  never  'courted'  much,  Marjory." 

"  Ko  ;  I  should  not  have  liked  it  if  you  had  ; 
I  could  not  have  endured  being  'made  love  to.' 
But  we  were  so  ha])i)y — I  was  so  ha])py.  I  did 
not  know  that  1  loved  you,  or  you  me — only  I 
felt  so  very  hajipy  !" 

"  Mayst  thou  always  be  hapjiy,  my  little  white 
rose  !  Not  one  of  us  all  deserves  happiness  so 
much." 

He  staid  with  her  at  the  farm  for  a  few  days : 
then  he  went  away ;  and  I  had  my  little  sister 
entirely  to  myself. 

I  saw  a  great  deal  of  her ;  penetrated  fold 
after  fold  into  the  pure  calyx  of  the  white  rose, 
and  wondered  at  its  rare  perfectncss. 

There  arc  two  distinct  classes  of  our  sex — 
women  whom  men  love,  and  women  whom  wo- 
men love.  Marjory  was  of  the  latter,  and, 
though  it  1)0  treason  to  mankind  to  say  it,  the 
higlier  order.  Her  attractions  were  wholly  dis- 
tinct from  those  "of  the  earth,  earthy,"  which 
gain  a  young  woman  many  lovers.  HerswuuKl 
be  more  likely  to  win  her  only  friends;  but  all 
she  did  win  she  won  forever. 

Watching  Alwyn  closely,  during  the  few  days 
of  his  stay,  it  had  seemed  to  me,  when  the  Lon- 
don rust  was  rul'bed  oft"  him,  that  his  nature 
was  growing  purer  and  better — that  toward  his 
wife,  especially,  a  deep  tenderness  was  springing 
uj).  As  if  his  l(jve,  omitting  the  jiassion-timc, 
Iiad  seized  on  the  fricndsiiiji-stage  of  married 
life,  and  was  blossoming  out;  like  an  auricula 
of  mine  which  obstinately  refused  to  flower  at 
tlie  |)roi)er  season,  but  in  the  middle  of  August 
astonished  me  by  putting  forth  the  prettiest  bud 
in  the  world. 

I  augured  that  my  brother's  marriage  would 
some  day  become  one  of  the  man)- instances  of 


ALWYN'S  FIRST  WIFE. 


53 


>ia>v  almost  impossille  it  is  for  a  truly  good  man 
not  to  love  a  noble  and  lovable  wife  who  loves 
him. 

We  spent  a  very  happy  month,  my  sister  and 
I,  in  talking  of  his  future,  in  which  was  included 
both  of  ours.  And  a  little — a  very  little — of 
another  future,  so  dim,  yet  so  near — so  strange, 
yet  so  wondrously  beloved,  which  as  yet  lay  in 
the  Almighty's  hand  among  unborn  souls. 

On  the  last  day  of  the  month,  the  day  before 
Alwyn  was  expected  home,  Marjoiy  came  to 
drink  tea  with  me.  She  was  restless  with  joy 
— could  not  sit  still  for  five  minutes — kept  on 
smiling  and  talking,  turning  over  and  over  again 
my  books  and  work.  At  last  she  came  to  my 
desk,  where  I  had  been  making  out  my  mid- 
summer school-bills,  and  began  to  amuse  her- 
self with  its  contents. 

"  I  may,  Charlotte  ?  You  have  no  secrets,  I 
suppose  ?     At  least  none  from  me." 

"None,  ray  child." 

And  I  thanked  Heaven  it  was  so — that  every 
trace  of  the  only  secret  I  ever  had  to  keep  from 
her  had  long  since  become  dust  and  ashes  under 
my  grate. 

"Your  correspondence  is  small.  Only  my 
letters  and  Ahv3-n's — mine  the  most  plentiful  by 
far.  Are  these  all  that  Alwyn  has  written  to 
you  since  his  marriage  ?" 

"  Uo  you  want  to  read  them,  Mistress  Jeal- 
ousy?" 

"No,  thank  you;  I  have  read  them  all  be- 
forehand. He  generally  gives  me  his  letters  to 
read.     You  don't  mind  that,  sister,  dear!" 

"My  pet,  no!" 

"  Jealous" — slie  went  on  moralizing.  "  Char- 
lotte, what  a  strange  feeling  that  jealousy  must 
be!     Did  you  ever  know  what  it  was?" 

"A  little— once." 

"  I  neverdid.  Of  course  not  ?  I  could  never 
feel  it  concerning  any  one  but  Alwyn.  And  to 
be  jealous  of  him,  how  impossible — how  wicked 
it  would  be!" 

"  Don't  vou  think  so  ?" 

"  Certainly." 

"  I  can  understand  people  being  jealous  before 
they  are  married,  or  engaged — but  afterward ! 
Why,  such  an  idea  would  never  come  into  my 
head.  How  could  it,  when  once  I  was  sure,  per- 
fectly sure,  that  Alwyn  loved  me ;  that  he  must 
have  maiTied  me  simply  for  love  —  since  there 
was  nothing  else  in  me  he  could  marry  me  for." 

"Foolish  girl!" 

"No,  I  repeat — notliing.  I  am  not  hand- 
•some — or  clever,  or  accomplished — no  more  to 
compare  with  him  than  the  night  with  the  day. 
Sometimes  when  I  see  what  other  women  are — 
the  women  be  daily  meets  with,  without  caring 
for  any  of  them — I  sit  and  marvel  at  my  bless- 
edness— at  the  infinite  mercy  of  Heaven  which 
made  Alwyn  love  me.  Charlotte,  do  you  re- 
member the  day  I  fell  in  the  snow." 

"I  do  remember  it." 

"I  thought — no.  at  the  time  I  thought  no- 
thing. It  was  as  if  somebody  struck  me  — 
stunned  me.     Something  kept  saying  as  loud 


as  a  trumpet,  'Alwyn  is  going — Alwyn  does 
not  care  for  you.  You  had  better  die.'  And 
I  verily  think  I  should  have  died." 

"  And  been  buried  in  the  church-porch, 
And  Alwyn  buried  in  the  quire; 
And  out  of  her  bosom  there  sprang  a  red  rose. 
And  out  of  his  bosom  a  brier." 

I  quoted  this,  adding,  "  Marjory,  are  you  not 
ashamed  of  such  sentimentality  ?  You — a  wife, 
and — 3^ou  know  !  There,  take  your  beloved's 
letters,  which  he  wrote  me  years  before  you 
married  him,  and  which  were  a  great  deal  more 
foolish  and  rhapsodical  than  any  he  ever  wTites 
now.     Quick,  take  them !" 

And  I  gave  them  to  her,  with  this  hand — 
"  this  accursed  right  hand,"  as  old  Cranmer 
moaned.  So  could  I  also  moan !  Oh,  would 
it  had  rather  been  consumed  in  flames  ! 

I  left  her  reading,  and  went  about  my  house- 
hold business,  entering  and  re-entering  several 
times.  She  always  looked  up  with  a  smiling 
or  an  admiring  comment,  and  once  I  heard  her 
laughing  heartily  to  herself  at  some  quaint  pas- 
sage. There  was  no  fun  like  Alwyn's  fun,  we 
both  thought. 

The  last  time  I  came  in,  after  a  little  longer 
absence  from  the  room,  my  sister  did  not  turn 
round  and  smile.  She  was  sitting,  with  the 
letters  carefully  tied  up  on  her  lap — her  head 
thrown  back  against  the  wall.  She  was  fright- 
fully pale. 

"  What  have  you  been  doing,  Marjor}',  child?" 

"  Oh,  nothing.  Only  laughing  too  much,  I 
think.     I  felt  sick.     I  am  better  now." 

I  gave  her  a  glass  of  water.  Soon  she  look- 
ed up  in  my  face  with  a  smile — such  a  soft,  sad 
smile,  like  that  of  a  dying  person. 

"  Thank  you  ;  you  are  very  kind.  I  think 
you  love  me,  Charlotte  ?" 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it ;  only  on  Alwyn's  account. 
Shall  I  put  bv  his  letters?  You  have  read 
them?" 

"All." 

"They  are  very  beautiful  letters  !" 

"Very  beautiful  letters." 

"  Then  having  praised  them  as  much  as  duty 
requires,  let  us  put  them  away  and  talk  of  some- 
thing else." 

"  Oh,  yes !" 

She  turned  her  chair  round  to  the  window, 
and  sat  leaning  out  till  it  grew  dusk.  Soon 
after  I  took  her  home  as  usual.  Passing  the 
little  bridge,  she  clung  to  my  arm  for  a  minute. 
I  asked  her  if  any  thing  was  the  matter. 

"  It  turned  me  sick  again — the  water.  How 
fast  it  runs — how  fast  it  runs!" 

I  left  her  sitting  at  the  supper-table  with  her 
grandparents.  I  have  in  memory  a  perfect  pic- 
ture of  her  there ;  white'  as  a  statue — but  then 
she  was  always  pale — with  her  light  hair  partly 
dropping  down,  just  as  she  had  taken  her  bon- 
net off;  her  eyes  looking  straight  for^va^d,  with 
a  melancholy  blankness  in  them ;  her  thin  hands 
folded  over  each  other  on  the  table-cloth,  one 
finger  tightly  pressing  the  wedding  ring. 

Oil,  my  sister — my  poor  Marjory  ! 


51 


ALWYN'S  FIRST  WIFE. 


CHAPTER  VII. 


In  the  middle  of  the  following  night  I  was 
roused  by  a  message  from  the  farm.  The  jiains 
of  motherhood  had  prematurely  come  upon  Al- 
•wy-n's  wife,  and  Alwyn  was  not  here — would 
not  be  here  till  morning  ! 

I  rose,  prepared  to  run  across  the  fields  at 
once,  without  waiting  for  daylight.  In  passing 
out,  I  stumbled  over  my  desk.  A  horrible  idea 
flashed  across  my  mind.     I  7iiust  be  satisfied. 

Ay,  even  before  I  went  to  her,  I  must  be  sat- 
isfied. 

I  struck  a  light.  I  dragged  out  the  packet  of 
Alwyn's  letters — looked  them  over  separately 
and  carefully.  Inside  one,  with  wliich  it  had 
no  connection,  and  into  which  it  must  have 
slipped  by  the  merest,  the  most  fatal  chance,  I 
found  the  small  half  sheet  in  which  he  had  said, 
'•  she  should  never  knotc  till  her  dijiny  day  that  he 
had  married  her  from  gratitude." 

Then  I  felt  sure  that  she  had  read  it.  Like- 
wise that,  in  a  different  sense,  alas  I  to  that  in 
which  they  were  written — those  words  had  and 
would  come  true. 

Going  across  those  meadows,  in  the  dawn, 
with  the  dull  stolid  step  with  which  one  goes  to 
meet  the  Inevitable,  I  felt  as  certain  as  if  I  saw 
it  wTitten  in  the  red  lines  along  the  east,  that 
the  day  then  breaking  would  be  my  sister's  "  dy- 
ing day." 


She  was  perfectly  calm.  She  smiled  when  I 
entered,  saying,  "  I  knew  you  would  come, 
Charlotte." " 

I  remember  once,  when  her  throes  were  hard, 
she  spoke  of  Rachel  at  Ejihrath,  and  said,  "  If  it 
were  a  boy,  she  might  almost  call  the  child  Be- 
noni." 

"  But  his  father  called  him  Benjamin,"  whis- 
pered the  old  grandmother,  scarcely  knowing 
what  she  was  saying.  "Look  how  Marjory 
shivers !  Don't  fret,  darling ;  Alwyn  will  be 
here  in  an  hour  or  two.  Isn't  it  fortunate.  Miss 
Reid,  that  she  should  never  have  asked  to  see 
her  husband  ?" 

I  motioned  silence,  for  Marjory  continued 
.shuddering  convulsively.  At  last  she  drew  my 
head  down  to  hers,  and  put  her  li])S  to  my  car. 

"  Do  you  think — tell  no  one  I  said  so — but 
do  you  think  he  will  love  my  child,  his  own, 
own  child  ?" 

Very  soon  she  grew  delirious,  and  talked  in- 
coherently and  fast,  every  sentence  ending  with 
some  thing  about  "gratitude." 

When  Alwyn  came  to  the  farm,  he  heard  her 
voice  thus  sharp  and  wild.  Ho  was  not  allowed 
to  see  her. 

If  she  had  seen  him — his  intolerable  remorse 
and  agony  !  But  it  was  too  late  ;  I  do  not 
think  any  human  power,  any  human  love  could 
tlien  have  saved  her. 

Alwyn  rode  ofl"  like  a  madman  in  search  of 
all  the  medical  help  in  tiie  country.  When  he 
came  back,  no  frightful  ravings  met  his  car. 
I  wai  waiting  for  him  at  the  door. 


Marjory  was  lying,  very  still  and  beautiful — 
more  beautiful  ])erhaps  than  he  had  ever  seen 
her — with  her  little  dead  baby  beside  her.  We 
put  it  there. 

He  had  no  longer  wife  nor  child — only  his 
poor  heart-broken  sister. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

After  my  brother  became  a  widower,  I  gave 
up  my  little  school  and  went  to  keep  his 
house. 

He  had  nobody  but  me ;  for  he  had  grown 
an  altered  man.  The  brilliant  London  society 
dropped  from  him — he  could  amuse  it  no  longer. 
A  few  people  called  once  or  twice  to  do  the 
civil  to  me,  to  inquire  after  "poor  Mr.  Reid," 
and  confide  to  me  their  hopes  that  he  would 
soon  get  over  it  and  marry  again — all  men  did 
so.  Gradually,  however,  they  ceased  their 
visits,  for  they  never  saw  him  ;  and  were  not 
particularly  attracted  by  his  sister.  So  we  two 
were  left  in  solitude. 

His  literary  patron  discovered  that  it  was 
useless  to  have  a  secretary  who  could  not  be 
entertaining ;  so  he  aided  Alwyn  in  getting 
the  secretaryship  to  an  insurance  company. 
Thither,  day  after  day,  Alwyn,  who  once  hated 
business,  now  patiently  trudged — disappearing 
after  breakfast,  ajipearing  again  at  five — then 
settling  down  with  interminable  office  papers 
before  him  until  bedtime. 

He  never  now  went  out  of  an  evening. 

Sometimes  he  would  lift  his  eyes,  and  for 
five  minutes  at  a  time,  stare  with  a  fixed,  sad 
gaze  on  the  chair  opixjsite,  where  she  used  to  sit 
■ — I  always  took  care  to  sit  at  the  other  side  my- 
self— but  from  the  day  she  was  burtcd  he  never 
mentioned  Marjory's  name. 

Many  months  after,  he  happened  to  have  a 
short  but  sharp  illness,  and,  unlike  most  men, 
illness  always  made  Alwyn  gentle,  loving,  child- 
like, and  good. 

I  had  been  sitting  up  with  him  till  late  at 
night,  till  after  he  had  dropped  into  his  first 
sleep.  Suddenly  he  started  out  of  it,  moaning 
drowsily,  "Don't  go — don't  go,  Marjory." 

I  roused  him,  "It  is  only  a  dream,  Alwyn, 
dear." 

He  answered  sharply,  "You  arc  mistaken — 
I  wish  you  would  leave  me.  She  will  not  come 
because  you  are  in  the  room." 

I  was  afraid  he  was  delirious.  My  Itwks 
must  have  grieved  him  ;  for  after  a  minute  he 
held  out  his  hand. 

"  I  did  not  mean  to  be  cross  with  you,  Char- 
lotte. You  arc  very  good  to  me.  Nobody  ever 
loved  me  like  you,  except — " 

I  knew  whom  he  meant. 

After  a  while,  lying  broad  awake,  and  speak- 
ing in  a  rational  tone,  without  any  excitement, 
he  said  to  me  :  "Sister,  I  will  tell  you  some- 
thing which  I  never  intended  to  tell  any  one. 
It  mi^^lit  be  tli'mght  a  delusion,  a  piece  of  down- 


ALWYN'S  FIRST  WIFE. 


55 


right  insanity  on  my  part,  but  it  is  as  true  as 
that  you  are  sitting  here.  You  will  not  mention 
it  again. 

"  Is  it  likely,  when  you  desire  me  not  ?" 
"Well,  then,  listen.  Every  night  since  the 
first  night  we  came  hack  into  this  house  I  have 
seen,  the  moment  I  piit  the  candle  out,  her — 
Marjory" — (he  stopped) — "my  dear  wife  Mar- 
jory, sitting  where  you  sit,  with  her  hand  laid 
on  her  own  pillow — what  used  to  be  her  own — 
looking  at  me.  If  I  move,  she  vanishes— but 
if  I  lie  quiet,  she  sits  there  ;  sometimes  all  night 
long.     Now  do  you  believe  me  ?" 

I  paused  a  minute,  then  said,  "Yes,  I  do. 
That  is,  I  believe  it  to  he  possible." 

I  think  any  woman  who  knows  what  it  is  to 
love  as  Marjory  loved  my  brother,  will  likewise 
allow  that  such  a  thing  is  at  least  possible. 
"What  does  she  look  like  ?" 
"Herself,  exactly.    But  more  as  she  used  to 
look  as  a  girl,  before — before  I  married  her." 
"Does  she  ever  speak?" 
"Never." 

He  lay  quiet  a  few  minutes,  then  broke  out 
into  a  sort  of  moan,  "  Oh,  my  poor  Marjory, 
what  a  blind  fool  was  I!  Sometimes,  I  fiincy, 
she  felt  the  truth — though,  thank  God !  she 
never  kne,/  it." 

For  I  had  not  dared  to  tell  liim  the  terrible 
fact,  which,  in  spite  of  the  doctor's  positive 
declaration  that  she  must  inevitably  have  died 
in  childbirth,  often  made  me  feel  as  if  I  were 
my  sister's  murderess. 

"Charlotte,  do  j-ou  think  she  knows  I  love 
her  now?" 

"  I  do  think  it." 

I  wept ;  I  could  not  but  weep.  It  seemed  so 
sad  and  strange  that  this  love,  the  one  hope 
and  desire  of  her  existence,  should  only  have 
come  after  she  had  died.  Y'et,  poor  Marjory, 
she  might  have  thought  it  worth  dying  for ! 

Our  conversation  ceased.  My  brother  never 
recin'red  to  it,  any  more  than  if  it  had  happened 
in  a  dream  of  the  night  or  a  delirium  during 
his  illness. 

I  do  not  know  how  long  this  delusion  or 
visitation — whichever  it  may  be  called — lasted. 
In  a  few  months  my  brother  had  become  such 
a  quiet,  grave  man,  wholly  absorbed  in  business, 
that  any  one  would  have  thought  him  the  last 
person  in  the  world  to  be  subject  to  a  supersti- 
tious fancy. 

His  character  totally  changed.  From  having 
been  transparent  as  daylight  and  gay  as  sun- 
shine, he  grew  reserved,  subdued,  sometimes 
even  cold — but  cold  only  toward  strangers. 
Toward  any  one  who  liked  or  loved  him,  he 
seemed  morbidly  anxious  to  return  every  grain 
of  that  liking  or  loving.  He  was  solicitously 
kind,  even  to  a  fiiult.  No  creature  heard  from 
him  a  sharp  or  angry  word — none  ever  knew 
hira  pursue  his  own  comfort  or  pleasure  in  pref- 
erence to  theirs. 

We  lived  iu  the  house  at  Kensington — the 
house  where  he  had  first  brought  his  bride,  and 
where  he  had  come  back,  a  solitary  widower — 


for  seven  years.     A  peaceful  life  it  was,  with- 
out any  events  of  any  kind. 

My  brother  was  now  thirty-two  years  old. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

I  URGED  Alwyn  to  pay  the  visit. 
was  a  beautiful  place.      Sir 


Ockham 
(his  for- 
mer patron,  who  was  still  as  much  a  friend  to 
him  as  a  shallow,  sentimental,  fashionable  lit- 
terateur  can  be)  eagei'ly  pressed  him  to  go.  He 
had  been  toiling  at  that  insurance  office  early 
and  late,  without  any  holiday,  for  seven  years ; 
except  that  once  a  year,  so  long  as  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Blair  lived,  he  used  to  go  down  to  the 
farm,  generally  in  the  winter  time.  But  that 
stay  was  in  the  original,  not  in  the  corrupted 
and  pleasurable  sense — a  keeping  of  holy-day. 

We  always  came  up  to  London  better  and 
calmer  after  this  visit — not  exactly  to  his  wife's 
grave,  for  we  both  held  that  the  revisiting  and 
mourning  over  graves  is  a  needless,  almost  a 
sinful,  thing  to  those  who  believe  in  the  immor- 
tality and  perjjetual  presence  of  the  beloved  lost 
— but  to  the  places  sanctified  by  Marjory's  liv- 
ing presence,  and  Marjory's  love. 

It  did  not  make  him  sad  now.  Human  na- 
ture is  human  nature ;  and  God's  providence 
allows  not  that  there  should  ever  be  in  any  hu- 
man heart  a  continual  imhealed  wound. 

The  snowdrops  of  seven  winters  had  grown 
over  all  that  was  mortal  of  Marjory  and  her 
little  babe.  The  widower,  though  never  for- 
getting either,  lived  on  calmly  and  was  com- 
forted. 

I  was  glad  when  he  at  last  consented  to  min- 
gle again  for  a  brief  season  with  the  circle  to 
which  he  had  once  brightly  belonged,  and  to 
revisit  Ockham  Tower. 

There  was  some  slight  bustle  of  preparation, 
for  his  habits  had  become  simjile  even  to  home- 
liness. As  delicately  as  I  could  I  started  the 
question  whether  he  should  not  put  off  his  deep 
mourning,  which  he  had  worn  all  these  years. 
But  he  absolutely  refused. 

However,  a  handsome  man  never  looks  so 
well  as  in  black,  and  my  brother  was  a  very 
handsome  man  still.  His  voice  had  a  graver 
tone — his  fiice  was  somewhat  sharper — with  a 
slight  baldness  over  the  forehead.  Every  trace 
of  boyish  sentimentalism  had  become  absorbed 
in  the  maturity  of  middle  age.  You  would 
hardly  recognize  the  Alwyn  Keid  of  former  days, 
save  from  those  "gentle  manners"  which  had 
won  the  heart  of  poor  Marjory  Blaii*. 

I  admired  him  very  much  myself,  and  thought 
it  probable  that  other  women  would  do  the 
same. 

While  I  was  packing  his  portmanteau,  he 
said,  hurriedly, 

"  Charlotte,  do  you  think  this  is  quite  safe?" 

He  showed  me  the  wedding-ring — hers,  which 
ho  had  always  carried  at  his  watch-chain,  it  be- 
ing too  small  for  any  of  his  fingers. 


56 


ALWYN'S  FIKST  WIFE. 


"It  is  worn  thin,  yoa  sec.  I  am  afraid  of 
losinp  it." 

"  You  had  better  give  it  to  me  to  keep  until 
yon  come  back." 

I  took  it.     It  lies  in  my  desk  now. 

My  brother's  letters  from  Ockhani  Tower  were 
almost  like  his  letters  of  ten  years  ago.  Cer- 
tainly in  description,  in  humor,  in  the  rare  and 
exquisite  tact  which,  without  effort,  snys  pre- 
cisely what  the  recipient  of  the  cjiistic  likes  to 
hear,  I  never  knew  a  correspondent  like  Alwyn. 
His  were  not  "show"  letters,  wTitten  as  if  the 
author  were  fully  conscious  that  every  line  was, 
or  deserved  to  be,  preserved  in  adanuintine  rec- 
ord for  the  edification  of  posterity ;  nor  were 
they  those  formal,  cold  documents  which  very 
clever  and  good  people  sometimes  indite — mum- 
mied epistles,  with  no  more  of  the  writer's  true 
soul  in  them  than  there  is  in  the  body  of  a  de- 
funct Egyptian.  No.  Alwyn  was  the  prince 
of  correspondents.  He  wrote,  not  for  himself 
or  too  much  of  himself,  but  from  himself  to  you. 
Wrote,  because  he  loved  you,  and  liked  to  write 
to  you,  because  he  knew  you  loved  him,  and 
liked  to  hear  about  him.  His  letters  were  him- 
self— his  best,  tenderest,  noblest  self.  It  was  a 
bright  day  whenever  the  postman  brought  one 
to  the  door. 

He  told  me  a  good  deal  about  the  people  who 
wer3  staying  at  Ockham — very  jdeasant  com- 
pany, as  it  seemed.  Among  the  rest — of  two 
lovely  little  girls,  named  llossiter,  with  whom 
hs  was  greatly  charmed.  In  his  young  man's 
ti  ne  he  had  been  particularly  fond  of  children. 
Tiicse  tiny  playmates,  of  from  four  to  six,  were 
apjiarently  great  favorites  of  his. 

They  had  a  mamma  who,  he  said,  "was  an 
agreeable  and  lady-like  woman." 

In  the  three  following  letters,  which  came  on 
three  several  days  when  I  had  vainly  expected 
liim,  he  having  fixed  to  return  home,  he  did 
not  mention  the  Rossiters.  His  tone  of  mind 
seemed  different  from  what  it  had  been  in  the 
early  part  of  his  visit — restless,  perplexed,  with 
a  slight  touch  of  sadness. 

I  had  begim  to  be  uneasy,  when  suddenly, 
without  giving  me  notice,  he  came  back.  He 
had  been  absent  a  full  month. 

Tiiough  it  was  late,  we  sat  down  to  talk  over 
the  fire.  He  seemed  in  high  spirits — very  com- 
municative about  every  body  and  every  thing, 
with  one  excejition. 

"Alwyn,  you  have  forgotten  to  tell  me  any 
thing  about  the  Rossiters." 

He  turned  toward  the  fire.  "Oh,  they  are 
very  charming  little  girls." 

"And  their  mother,  I  suppose  the  same  ad- 
jective may  apjily  to  her?" 

"Certainly." 

"Arc  they  her  onlv  children?" 

"Yes." 

"  Is  she  a  middle-aged  jfcrson  ?" 

"About  my  age,  or  a  little  younger." 

"And  who  is  Mr.  Rossiter?" 

"  Really,  did  I  not  tell  you?  Mrs.  Rossiter 
is  a  widow." 


I      An  "agreeable"  widow,  of  thirty,  with  two 

I  "charming    and   lovable"  little  girls!      If  the 

subject   had  b.-en  one  that  allowed  jesting,  I 

I  might  have  taken  this  excellent  opportunity  for 

a  little  harmless  joke  at  his  exj)ense.     As  it 

was,  I  only  laid  my  hand  upon  his  arm,  and 

looked   at   him,    smiling.      His   color    rose,    I 

;  thought. 

' '  What  are  you  staring  at  me  for,  Charlotte  ?" 
'  spoken  all  but  angrily. 

I  drew  back,  and  sat  gazing  into  the  fire  for 
a  long  time.  Thoughts,  many  and  fast — pos- 
sibilities Mliich  I  had  long  believed  impossi- 
bilities, traversed  my  brain,  with  dull,  steady 
!  tramp,  like  a  regiment  going  to  battle.  Final- 
ly, they  fought  the  battle  out — other  and  softer 
thoughts  took  their  place. 

I  looked  sideways  at  my  brother.  He  was 
the  last  of  our  race.  Youth,  energy,  hcpe, 
were  still  strong  within  him.  Life  is  often 
only  begun  at  two-and-thirty ;  and  a  man  can 
not  live  forever  upon  a  dream  or  a  memory,  as 
a  woman  can. 

Still  the  idea  which  had  entered  my  mind 
was  painful.  I  was  rather  glad  not  to  know 
the  whole  truth  at  present, 

"Brother,  it  is  growing  late." 

"  8tay — ^just  ten  minutes — I  want  to  talk  to 
you." 

We  sat  down.  It  struck  me  forcibly,  almost 
with  a  chill  of  jjain,  how  exactly  we  were  sit- 
ting as  we  sat  one  winter  night  in  my  cottage, 
before  he  married  Marjory. 

He  dashed  into  the  matter  with  a  desperate 
plunge — 

"Mrs.  Rossiter  is  a  very  agreeable  woman." 

"  So  you  said." 

"You  would  like  her  very  much,  Charlotte. 
She  wishes — in  fact,  I  wish — that  you  should 
visit  her." 

"Does  she  live  in  London?" 

"In  the  season  ;  otherwise  at  her  jointure- 
house,  Manor  I'lace,  in  Shropshire." 

"  She  has  jjropertv,  then." 

"A  good  deal." 

"And  you  think  I  shall  like  her.  Do  you 
like  her?"" 

"Very  much  indeed." 

"Alwyn,  I  am  going  to  put  to  yon  a  plain 
question  ;  answer  it  or  not,  as  vou  will." 

"Goon." 

"You  know  what  I  think  of  second   mar- 
j  riages,  at  least  for  men  ;   thiit  they  are  natural, 
justifialde,  often  even  advisable.    I  never  should 
object  to— I  mean  regret — your  making  a  wor- 
thy second  choice.     Will  it  be  Mrs.  Rossiter?" 

"Not  yet;  oh!  (Charlotte,  not  yet.  Don't 
talk  of  my  nuirrying — yet."  And  with  one 
wild,  mournfid  glance  at  the  chair — we  had 
never  moved  it — he  dropjjcd  his  face  between 
his  hands. 

"  Have  you  any  hesitation  in  telling  me  how 
the  matter  stands  between  you — the  engage- 
ment?" 

"  Good  Heavens !  there  is  none.  How  could 
I  form   one   without    telliu'  vou?     Unlv    she 


ALWYN'S  FIRST  WIFE. 


57 


lores  me,  Charlotte — loves  me.  I  found  it  out 
quite  by  chance." 

"And  you  (the  word  'love'  stuck  in  my 
throat),  you  return  her  feelini^s  ?" 

"I  admire  her.  I  have  thought  sometimes 
I  could  be  happy  with  her,  if  I  could  only 
make  her  happy.  Something  in  me  cries  out, 
'Atone,  Atone!'  Charlotte,  remember,  she 
loves  me.  I  can  not,  I  dare  not,  break  another 
loving  heart." 

Break  the  heart  of  a  handsome  widow  of 
thirty,  rich,  with  two  charming  children? — I 
could  have  smiled  at  the  notion  ;  but  it  was  a 
sore  point,  made  sorer  by  the  never-ceasing 
stings  of  conscience.  Either  he  truly  believed 
what  he  said,  or  he  deceived  himself,  led  away 
imconsciously  by  his  long  dormant  and  now 
suddenly  aroused  craving  after  the  refined  and 
the  beautiful :  his  perpetual  necessity  of  being 
loved. 

When  I  saw  Mrs.  Rossiter — he  took  me  to 
pay  her  a  visit  next  day — I  was  by  no  means 
certain  whether  he  loved  her,  with  the  hiyh, 
pure  love  that  few  men  feel  more  than  once — 
but  I  was  convinced  that  he  desired  to  marry 
her. 

Let  me  do  justice  to  this  lady,  who,  as  I  de- 
tected almost  immediately,  was  deeply  and  gen- 
erously attached  to  my  brother.  But  what  mar- 
vel in  that  ? 

She  was  what  people  call  a  "gentleman's 
beauty;"  that  is,  a  beauty  who  attracts  and 
dazzles  immediately.  Of  person  rather  large 
and  Juno-like  ;  cheerful,  even  brilliant  in  con- 
versation, though  not  the  least  of  the  "  intellect- 
ual" stamp ;  a  thoroughly  sensible,  open-hearted 
woman,  accustomed  to,  and  rather  fond  of,  but 
not  spoiled  by  the  world. 

We  dined  with  her.  Coming  home,  Alwyn 
did  not  ask  me,  as  in  that  far  day  in  a  buried 
life — buried  from  us  as  completely  as  the  young 
face  which  had  then  looked  from  under  the 
roses  at  tlie  gate  of  the  farm — he  did  not  ask 
me  "how  I  liked  her?"  He  only  made  the 
careless  oUservation,  "that  I  seemed  to  like  the 
children." 

"Yes,  they  are  extremely  pretty  little  girls." 

We  parted  in  a  very  friendly  manner,  and 
with  a  sort  of  silent  understanding,  on  the  stair- 
case. He  kissed  me  before  he  went  into  his 
room. 

I  marveled  whether  that  night  he  saw  the 
figure  sitting  watching  him,  with  its  hand  on 
the  vacant  pillow  that  had  been  Marjorv's. 

Yet  surely  had  she  known  she  would  have 
felt,  as  I  did,  that  Avhatever  makes  the  justi- 
fiable happiness  of  the  beloved  can  never  be 
the  grief  of  those  who  love. 

Mrs.  Rossiter  became  Mrs.  Reid.  It  was  a 
grand  wedding ;  St.  George's,  Hanover  square  ; 
a  dozen  carriages ;  ten  bridesmaids,  including 
the  two  graceful  children,  in  India  muslin 
flounced  up  to  the  waist ;  and  a  Champagne 
breakfast  afterward.  Nothing  at  all  that  could 
remind  the  bridegroom  of  that  dim  village 
churcli  where,  through  the  soft  rain  of  a  May 


morning,  we  had  walked ;  just  we  five,  the  be^ 
trothed  pair,  old  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Blair,  and  I. 

Alwyn  looked  very  well;  composed,  digni- 
fied, rather  grave,  lieturned  from  the  church, 
the  little  girls  jumped  on  his  knee,  and  called 
him  "papa."  He  started;  then  kissed  them 
fondly,  saying  in  a  smothered  tone,  "that  he 
hoped  always  to  keep  and  to  deserve  that  name." 

I  have  often  thought  those  jrelty  innocenta 
had  a  great  deal  to  do  in  making  the  marriage. 

Well,  it  was  all  over  quickly,  like  a  dream. 
I  woke  alone  in  my  brother's  old  house,  of 
which  I  had  so  long  been  the  mistress;  of 
which  a  large  "To  be  Let"  in  one  window, 
and  a  "To  be  Sold  by  Auction"  in  another, 
revealed  that  he  was  no  longer  master,  nor  I 
mistress,  any  more. 

But  he  had  spent  the  last  evening  alone  with 
me,  going  quietly  and  solemnly  through  all  the 
rooms,  choosing  the  furniture  which  she  had 
happened  to  like,  and  the  little  knick-knacker- 
ies which  had  belonged  to  her  in  her  maiden 
days,  or  been  wedding-presents  afterward.  All 
these  he  gave  to  me,  though  without  once  men- 
tioning her  name. 

Likewise,  he  made  a  settlement  upon  me  of 
the  little  fortune  which  Marjory  brought  him, 
the  principal  of  which  he  had  never  once  touch- 
ed. 

All  these  gifts  made  me  quite  a  well-to-do 
woman.  Ihalf  hesitated  to  receive  the  last ;  but 
he  imperatively  bade  me  be  silent. 

"You  know,  sister,  it  is  exactly  what  she — ^" 

The  sentence  was  never  finished. 


CIIAPTER  X. 


My  old  cottage  near  the  farm  being  to  let,  1 
took  it.  It  seemed  a  kind  of  satisfaction  now 
that  some  one  who  had  been  fond  of  Marjory 
should  live  near  the  village  church  she  was  mar- 
ried in,  and  (though  that  was  against  my  creed, 
yet  instinct  is  often  stronger  than  opinion) 
near  the  white  head-stone  on  which  was  her 
simple  name,  "Marjory  Reid,"  and  which  was 
— I  mourned — the  sole  memento  left  on  earth 
of  such  a  pure  and  beautiful  soul. 

I  erred.  The  Giver  and  Claimer  of  souls 
knows  His  work  better.  Evil  jierishes  ;  it  has 
done  its  work  as  a  purifying  and  chastening 
agent ;  it  dies,  according  to  its  natural  tenden- 
cy, which  is  to  die.  But  Good  is  from  its  very 
nature  and  origin  immortal. 

Eveiy  Sunday  I  used  to  say  to  myself,  pass- 
ing by  the  head-stone,  "Poor  Marjory!  what 
w  ert  thou  sent  on  earth  for  ?  Only  to  love,  suf- 
fer, die,  and  be  forgotten  ?" 

Oh,  purblind  unbeliever  that  I  was!  As  if, 
in  the  wondrous  mechanism  of  God's  universe, 
wherein  nothing  is  ever  wasted.  He  should  suf- 
fer innocence  and  love  to  jiass  away  into  obliv- 
ion, having  apparently  done  no  work,  efibcted 
no  good,  and  only  lived  less  to  enjoy  than  to 
endure  I 


58 


AL^\^'N'S  FIRST  WIFE. 


If  we  could  but  see  a  little  forward  toward 
the  end ! 


It  so  happened,  from  various  counteracting 
chances,  that  my  brother  and  I  did  not  meet  for 
several  years.  I  was  always  disinclined  to 
travel,  and  he  was  fast  bound  at  the  estate  in 
Shropshire  of  which  his  marriage  had  made  him 
master. 

An  excellent  master  he  proved  ;  filling;  admi- 
rably the  difficult  position  of  the  husband  of  ''a 
woman  of  jtroperty."  He  became  a  noted  man 
in  tlie  county ;  a  large  agriculturist,  a  member 
of  parliament,  a  justice  of  the  peace.  Chil- 
dren sprang  up,  one  after  tlie  other,  round  his 
board :  he  was  to  all  api)carance  a  prosperous  and 
ha]ipy  man.  Nay,  he  liimself  told  me  so.  His 
letters — for  we  maintained  a  steady  correspond- 
ence— gradually  changed  their  character  into 
the  business-like  gravity  of  middle  age.  I  hard- 
ly knew  it,  till  I  hai)pcned  to  read  one  of  those, 
long  ago,  from  Ockham  Tower,  and  lay  it  side 
by  side  with  these. 

.iVhv\-n  was  not  my  only  Shropshire  corre- 
spondent. Mrs.  Reid  favored  me  rarely ;  she 
wa>  not  a  ready  pen  woman  ;  but  various  minor 
scr.iwls  came  to  hand  from  tbe  young  Misses 
Rossiter.  One  day  I  received  a  few  lines  of 
wide-ruled  pen-over-pencil  writing,  as  if  some 
one  had  guided  the  little  hand :  ah,  bless  that 
little  hand  !   it  was  of  my  own  flesh  and  blood : 

"  Dear  Aust, — I  love  you,  and  some  of  these  days  I 
am  coming  to  see  you.     Your  affectionate  niece, 

"Maegaeet  IIeid." 

She  was  Alwyn's  eldest  child. 

I  will  not  confess  to  how  many  people  in  our 
village  I  triumphantly  showed  that  document. 
I  was  growing  a  very  weak-minded  old  woman. 

On  the  day  fixed — it  was  a  day  in  winter,  just 
after  the  New  Year — I  sat  awaiting  my  brother 
and  my  niece.  All  was  trim  in  my  cottage, 
over  the  ajjpearance  of  wliich  I  was  morbidly 
anxious,  considering  what  the  Misses  Rossiter 
had  told  me  of  the  sjjlendors  of  Manor  riacc. 
Tliere  was  holly  on  the  mantle-piece,  and  liolly 
on  the  piano  that  no  living  lingers  had  ever 
touched  since — ah,  I  remember  !  The  garden 
was  trim  and  green ;  and  I  knew  by  the  snow- 
drojis  in  my  borders  what  a  number  Alwyn 
would  lind — where  I  supposed  he  would  not 
think  of  going  now. 

There  drove  up  grandly  a  post-chaise  and 
four.  A  gentleman  leaped  out ;  I  could  hardly 
believe  it  was  my  brother  Alwyn. 

Tliose  wlio  live  alone  are  prone  to  think  that 
the  world  stands  still,  and  tliat  the  people  tlierein 
chcrisli  memories  and  feelings  which  belong  only 
to  solitude.  Living  here  I  had  naturally  lived 
wholly  in  past  days.  I  expected  the  Alwyn 
Keid  who  marriccl  Marjory:  I  found  Ahvvn 
Reid,  Es(|.,  of  Manor  I'lace,  magistrate  of  the 
county  of  Salop,  Imsband  of  Mrs.  Reid,  father 
of  a  large  and  rising  family.  At  first  I  was  ilis- 
appointed.  Not  afterward.  Not  when  I  had 
his  dauglitcr  on  my  knee,  and  him  by  my  side, 
and  saw  the  love  between  them. 


Margaret  was  a  veiy  sweet-looking  child ; 
but  I  vainly  traced  any  family  line.  Yet  it 
seemed  as  if  she  belonged  to  me  familiarly — as 
if  she  had  come  out  of  the  far-back  period  of  a 
forgotten  life.  I  found  it  almost  impossible  to 
believe  she  was  Mrs.  Reid's  daughter. 

She  made  herself  quite  at  home  immediately ; 
strayed  about  the  house ;  talked  to  Mary  (who 
had  married  her  jo,  buried  him,  and  come  back 
to  me) ;  examined  all  the  furniture,  and  espe- 
cially the  piano. 

"It  is  locked.     May  I  open  it?" 

"  It  has  not  been  opened  for  many  years,  my 
dear." 

"Oh,  please,  aunt!" 

I  could  not  resist  the  name.  I  began  fum- 
bling among  my  bunch  of  keys. 

"  Whose  piano  was  it  ?" 

"It  belonged  to — a  lady — who  is  dead." 

The  child  colored  —  interchanged  a  glance 
witli  her  father.  He  said,  gently,  "Yes,  it  was 
hers,  Margaret!"  and  walked,  first  to  the  win- 
dow, then  quietly  out  of  the  room. 

"Aunt,  I  know  who  that  lady  was.  Papa 
has  told  me  about  her.  She  was  my  half-mam- 
ma ;  I  love  her  very  much." 

"  Bless  thee,  my  dear  child." 

"Don't  cry  now,  aunt.  I'apa  and  I  never 
do,  and  we  often  talk  about  her.  I  know  her 
quite  well.  Papa  says  I  am  just  a  very  little 
like  her  sometimes.     Am  I  ?" 

"  It  may  be." 

"Oh,  I  wish  I  were  !  She  wassogcod.  Papa 
loved  her  so.  He  says,  the  more  I  grow  like  her, 
the  more  he  shall  love  me  every  day." 

I  could  hardly  speak.  Oh,  Maijory,  thou  wert 
living  still — thou  couldst  not  die. 

"Aunt,  now  may  I  open  her  piano?" 

The  next  day  I  had  it  put  in  tune.  ]\Iarga- 
ret  was  very  happy ;  she  sat  all  the  evening 
jilayiiig  her  pretty,  sim])le  music  by  the  firelight, 
her  ftither  and  I  listening.  It  seemed  as  if  the 
spirit  of  the  lost  had  come  back  to  us  in  that 
child. 

It  was  a  strange  thing — which,  while  they 
were  staying  here,  struck  other  people  besides 
myself — that  little  Margaret  n-as  very  like  Al- 
wyn's first  wife.  Not  in  face  exactly,  but  in 
manner  and  ways.  As  she  grew  older,  the  like- 
ness rather  increased  than  diminished.  Year 
by  year — for  from  this  time  I  visited  my  broth- 
er's household  nearly  every  summer — I  watched 
her  bloom  into  womanhood.  They  were  a  hand- 
some family ;  she  was  at  once  the  least  hand- 
some and  the  flower  of  them  all. 

iShe  was  her  father's  ri^ht  hand.  He  loved 
her  better  than  all  his  other  sons  and  daughters. 

I  do  not  think  Mrs.  Reid  minded  this,  being 
a  kind-hearted,  business-like  woman,  to  whom 
life  was  an  easy,  active,  bustling  aflair.  She 
brought  up  her  family  well,  and  from  their  cra- 
dles began  settling  how  she  sliould  put  out  her 
sons  in  the  world,  and  marry  her  handsome 
daughters.  She  was  aficctionate  to  her  hus- 
band, but  always  wondered  what  he  could  see  so 
especially  charming  iu  that  little  plain  Margaret. 


ALWYN'S  FIRST  WIFE. 


59 


How  Mrs.  Reid  would  have  smiled — a  calm, 
good-humored,  incredulous  smile — if  any  one 
had  told  her  that  all  the  good  influence  in  house, 
the  higher  spiritual  influence,  in  opposition  to 
the  very  strong  tide  of  worldlincss  which  was 
always  setting  the  other  way,  came  from  "  lit- 
tle plain  Margaret,"  and  through  her  from  one 
whom  perhaps  the  good  lady  had  hardly  thought 
of  a  dozen  times,  "Mr.  Keid's  first  wife,  who 
died  in  childbirth,  poor  thing !" 


CHAPTER  XI. 


My  brother  had  nearly  reached  his  threescore 
years.  The  latter  half  of  them  he  had  had  a 
peaceful,  uneventful  life.  I  will  pass  it  over 
rapidly,  for  it  seems  to  me  now  as  if  the  years  had 
fled  like  lightning,  and  as  if  it  were  but  yester- 
day that  he  was  a  young  man — the  young  man 
who  married  Marjory. 

And  now  he  was  an  old  man,  wheeled  about 
in  a  garden  chair,  looking  for  all  his  pleasures, 
amusements,  comforts,  to  the  one  companion 
who  never  failed  him — his  daughter  Margaret. 

Until  the  age  of  sixty  he  was  a  brave,  sturdy 
English  gentleman ;  the  boldest  hunter,  the 
keenest  shot,  the  most  active  and  the  justest  jus- 
tice in  the  whole  county.  Sickness  came  and 
changed  his  whole  existence.  He  became  an 
invalid  for  life.  His  family  gradually  grew  ac- 
customed to  the  fact,  and  all  went  on  as  if  he 
were  a  mere  adjunct  of  the  household,  to  be  ten- 
derly treated,  and  paid  great  attention  to  when 
they  could  spare  time.  But  the  true  head  of 
Manor  Place  was  Mrs.  Reid. 

They  were  rather  a  fractious  family,  especial- 
ly when  the  sons  and  daughters  grew  up ;  and 
between  them  and  the  energetic  mother  storms 
often  arose.  Never  with  the  father.  His  study, 
with  Margaret  and  his  books  beside  him,  was 
the  sanctuary  of  the  house. 

Margaret  has  often  told  me,  that  did  the  chil- 
dren bring  never  so  many  complaints,  his  con- 
stant command  was — for  his  least  entreaty  had 
the  weight  of  a  command — "Respect  your  moth- 
er!" "  Obey  your  mother ! "  "  Bear  with  your 
mother,  she  has  much  to  bear."  And  to  the 
mother  herself — though,  well  as  she  loved  him, 
she  tried  him  sometimes — none  ever  heard  him 
give  a  harsh  word. 

I  believe  through  all  his  life,  in  all  his  con- 
duct to  her,  the  one  idea  pursued  him — of  his 
duty  to  atone  to  this  woman,  who  loved  him, 
for  all  the  anguish  he  had  caused  to  the  other. 

"Charlotte,"  he  said  to  me,  one  day  looking 
after  Mrs.  Reid  as  she  sailed  smilingly  from 
under  the  walnut  shade  where  we  were  sitting, 
"I  think  I  have  made  her  happy." 

' '  Papa, "  murmured  Margaret's  fond  voice  be- 
hind, "you  make  every  body  happy." 

It  was  true.  One  I  knew — one  who  had  been 
dead  more  than  thirty  years — would  have  re- 
joiced to  see  into  what  perfection  his  character 
had  grown — how  the  faults  of  his  youth  had 


melted  away,  and  his  virtues  shone  out  clearer, 
year  by  year.  And  could  she  have  seen  all  this, 
surely  her  true  heart  would  have  said,  what  mat- 
ter if  he  were  no  longer  hers?  What  matter  if 
she  and  her  poor  life  were  totally  forgotten,  so 
that  he  thus  nobly  fulfilled  his  life,  faithful  to 
himself  and  to  his  God? 

But  she  was  not  forgotten — Alwyn  and  I  often 
talked  of  her  when  we  were  alone.  Ay,  and 
sometimes  to  his  children  —  to  his  eldest  and 
dearest  child,  he  would  speak  (without  any  sac- 
rilege to  their  mother,  and  his  own  good  wife) 
of  the  girl  who  was  his  friend  when  he  was  little 
more  than  a  boy — of  the  woman  who  had  loved 
him  so  faithfully,  and  died  years  before  any  of 
them  were  born.  Margaret  said  to  me  once, 
she  always  felt  as  if  her  true  mother — the  moth- 
er of  her  heart  and  soul,  whose  influence  had 
formed  her  mind  and  moulded  her  character, 
had  been  her  father's  first  wife. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

The  end  must  come.     Let  me  hasten  to  it. 

I  sit  once  more  in  my  little  cottage ;  Mar- 
garet sits  opposite.  We  are  very  silent ;  we 
have  not  got  used  to  that  change  which  our 
black  dresses  show.  She  will  put  off  hers  in 
due  time  for  marriage  white  ;  I  shall  wear  mine 
until  I  dress — that  is,  until  they  dress  me — in 
the  simpler  garment  which  no  one  ever  lays 
aside. 

We  have  lost  him — I  have  lost  him,  for  a  little 
while,  "a  little  while !"  It  is  so  comforting,  so 
comfortable  to  repeat  the  words,  that  I  shall  not 
dwell  upon  the  loss  itself,  except  to  narrate  a 
circumstance  which  occurred  on  the  night  be- 
fore his  departure,  which  I  have  often  thought 
of  afterward. 

It  was  my  turn  to  sit  up  with  Alwyn  ;  there 
was  no  one  in  the  room  but  me.  He  was 
not  sleeping,  but  lay  quite  still,  with  his  eyes 
open,  looking  earnestly  on  the  curtains  at  the 
foot  of  the  bed.  They  were  looped  up,  with 
just  space  enough  between  for  a  person  to 
stand. 

He  lay  so  long,  with  his  eye  steadily  fixed, 
that  at  last  I  spoke. 

"Alwyn,  if  I  move  the  night-light,  would  you 
try  to  sleep  ?" 

"No.     Hush!" 

"  What  are  you  looking  at  ?" 

He  made  no  answer  for  a  minute ;  then  turn- 
ing, heaved  a  deep  sigh.  ' '  You  should  not  have 
spoken.     She  is  gone  now." 

"Who?" 

"  Marjory." 

I  was  greatly  startled.  Not  that  I  disbelieved 
the  statement ;  I  have  already  declared  tliat  I 
hold  such  visions  or  visitations  to  be  at  least 
possible.  But  in  this  illness,  tiiough  it  was  not 
a  more  severe  attack  tlian  he  iiad  several  times 
recovered  from,  it  seemed  almost  like  a  super- 
natural warning. 


60 


M.  ANASTASIUS. 


*'  Are  you  sure  it  was  no  fancy  ?  Have  you 
seen  her  before?" 

''Not  for  thirty  years,  until  now.  These  five 
nights  she  has  come  and  stood  there."  He 
])ointed  to  the  foot  of  the  bed.  "  She  looks  so 
calm,  smiling,  and  glad.  She  is  as  young  as 
ever,  while  I — " 

Alas,  his  white  head,  his  withered,  palsied 
hands ! 

While  he  was  speaking,  Mrs.  Reid  and  Mar- 
garet came  in,  and  we  ceased  talking. 

Thoy  wisiied  me  to  go  to  bed  ;  but  a  forebod- 
ing, impossible  to  conquer,  kept  me  in  Alwyn's 
room  during  the  night. 

At  six  in  the  morning  my  brother  died. 

His  wife,  his  sons,  and  daughters,  were  all 


surrounding  him  on  either  side  the  bed.  At 
its  fuot  no  one  was  standing.  Just  when  we 
thought  he  was  gone,  he  opened  his  eyes  and 
fixed  them  steadily  there. 

"  Mar —  Mar — "  He  tried  in  vain  to  utter  the 
name. 

"Go  to  him,  Margaret,  my  love!"  sobbed 
Mrs.  Keid.      "  Go  and  kiss  your  dear  father." 

He  heard,  and  faintly  turned  to  reicive  the 
embrace  of  his  wife  and  daughter.  Then,  turn- 
ing uway  from  both,  he  stretched  his  hands  with 
a  bright  dying  smile  to  the  place  where  no  one 
stood,  and  f;iltered  out  distinctly,  as  if  answer- 
ing to  a  call,  the  words — 

"Yes,  Marjory." 

He  never  spoke  again. 


M.  ANASTASIUS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

I  WILL  relate  to  you,  my  friend,  the  whole 
history,  from  the  beginning  to — nearly  —  the 
end. 

The  first  time  that — that  it  happened,  was  on 
this  wise. 

My  husband  and  myself  were  sitting  in  a  pri- 
vate box  at  the  theatre — one  of  the  two  large 
London  theatres.  The  performance  was,  I  re- 
member well,  an  Easter  piece,  in  which  were 
introduced  live  dromedaries  and  an  elephant,  at 
whose  clumsy  feats  we  were  considerably  amus- 
ed. I  mention  this  to  show  how  calm  and  even 
gay  was  the  state  of  both  our  minds  that  even- 
in;.;,  and  how  little  there  was  in  any  of  the  cir- 
cumstances of  the  place  or  time  to  cause,  or  ren- 
der us  liable  to — what  I  am  about  to  describe. 

I  liked  this  Easter  piece  better  than  any  seri- 
ous drama.  My  life  had  contained  enouj^h  of 
the  tragic  element  to  nuike  me  turn  with  a  sick 
distaste  from  all  imitations  thereof  in  books  or 
plays.  For  montiis,  ever  since  our  marriage, 
Alexis  and  I  had  striven  to  lead  a  purely  child- 
ish, commonplace  existence,  eschewing  all  stir- 
ring events  and  strong  emotions,  mixing  little  in 
society,  and  then,  with  one  exception,  making 
no  associations  boyond  tiic  moment. 

It  was  easy  to  do  this  in  London  ;  for  we  had 
no  relations — we  two  were  quite  alone  and  free. 
Free — free  !  How  wildly  I  sometimes  grasped 
Alexis's  hand  as  I  repeated  that  word. 

He  was  young — so  was  L  At  times,  as  on 
fliis  night,  we  would  sit  together  and  hiiigb  like 
children.  It  was  so  glorious  to  know  of  a  sure- 
ty that  now  we  could  think,  feel,  speak,  act — 
above  all,  love  one  anotlicr — haunted  by  no 
(•oiintera(-ting  spell,  resp()nsil)io  to  no  living 
creature  for  our  life  and  our  love. 

liut  this  had  been  our  lot  only  for  a  year — I 


had   recollected  the  date,   shuddering,   i!i   the 
morning — for  one  year,  from  this  same  day. 

We  had  been  laughing  very  heartily,  cherish- 
ing mirth,  as  it  were,  like  those  who  would  ca- 
ress a  lovely  bird  that  had  been  frightened  out 
of  its  natural  home  and  grown  wild  and  rare  in 
its  visits,  only  tapping  at  the  lattice  fcr  a  min- 
ute, and  then  gone.  Suddenly,  in  the  pause 
between  the  acts,  when  the  house  was  half  dark- 
ened, our  laughter  died  away. 

"  How  cold  it  is  !"  said  Alexis,  shivering.  I 
shivered  too  ;  but  not  with  cold — it  was  more 
like  the  involuntary  sensation  at  which  people 
say,  "  Some  one  is  walking  over  my  grave."  I 
said  so,  jestingly. 

"  Hush,  Isbel,"  whispered  ray  husband,  and 
again  the  draft  of  cold  air  seemed  to  blow 
riglit  between  us. 

I  should  describe  the  position  in  which  we 
were  sitting  ;  both  in  front  of  the  box,  but  he  in 
full  view  of  the  audience,  while  I  was  half  hid- 
den by  the  curtain.  Between  us,  where  the 
cold  draft  blew,  was  a  vacant  chair.  Alexis 
tried  to  move  this  cluiir,  but  it  was  fixed  to  the 
floor.  He  passed  behind  it,  and  wraj)ped  a  man- 
tle over  my  shoulders. 

"This  London  winter  is  cold  for  you,  my 
love.  I  half  wish  we  had  taken  courage,  and 
sailed  once  more  for  Hispaniola." 

"Oh,   no — oh,  no!     No  more  of  the  sea!" 
I  said  I,  w  ith  another  and  stronger  shudder. 

He  took  his  former  position,  looking  round 
indifierently  at  the  audience.  But  neither  of 
us  s])oke.  The  mere  word  "Hispaniola"  was 
enough  to  tlirow  a  damp  and  a  silence  over  us 
both. 

"Isbel,"  he  said  at  last,  rousing  himself,  with 
a  half  smile,  "  1  think  you  must  have  grown  re- 
markal)ly  attractive.  Look!  half  the  glasses 
opposite  arc  lilted  to  our  box.     It  can  not  be  to  . 


M.  ANASTASIUS. 


61 


gaze  at  me,  you  know.  Do  you  remember  tell- 
ing me  I  was  the  ugliest  fellow  you  ever  saw  ?" 

"  Oh,  Alex  1"  Yet  it  was  quite  true — I  had 
thought  him  so,  in  far  back,  strange,  awful 
times,  when  I,  a  girl  of  sixteen,  had  my  mind 
wholly  filled  with  one  ideal — one  insane,  exqui- 
site dream  ;  when  I  brought  my  innocent  child's 
garlands,  and  sat  me  down  under  one  great 
spreading  magnificent  tree,  which  seemed  to  me 
the  king  of  all  the  trees  of  the  field,  until  I  felt 
its  dews  droii])ing  death  upon  my  youth,  and  my 
whole  soul  withering  under  its  venomous  shade. 

"  Oh,  Alex  I"  I  cried  once  more,  looking  fond- 
ly on  his  beloved  face,  where  no  unearthly  beau- 
ty dazzled,  no  unnatural  calm  repelled  ;  where 
all  was  simple,  noble,  manly,  true.  "  Husband, 
I  thank  Heaven  for  that  dear  '  ugliness'  of  yours. 
Above  all.  though  blood  runs  strong,  they  say, 
I  thank  Heaven  that  I  see  in  you  no  likeness 
to—" 

Alexis  knew  what  name  I  meant,  though 
for  a  whole  year  past — sinc6  God's  mercy  made 
it  to  us  only  a  name — we  had  ceased  to  utter  it, 
and  let  it  die  wholly  out  of  the  visible  world. 
We  dared  not  breathe  to  ourselves,  still  less  to 
one  another,  how  much  brighter,  liolier,  hap- 
pier, that  Morld  was,  now  that  the  Divine  wis- 
dom had  taken — liiin — into  another.  For  he 
had  been  my  husband's  uncle ;  likewise,  once 
my  guardian.     He  was  now  dead. 

I  sat  looking  at  Alexis,  thinking  what  a 
strange  thing  it  was  that  his  dear  face  should 
not  have  always  been  as  beautiful  to  me  as  it 
was  now.  That  loving  my  husband  now  so 
deeply,  so  wholly,  clinging  to  him  heart  to  heart, 
in  the  deep  peace  of  satisfied,  all-trusting,  and 
all-dependent  human  affection,  I  could  ever 
have  felt  that  emotion,  first  as  an  exquisite  bliss, 
then  as  an  inetfable  terror,  which  now  had  van- 
ished away,  and  become — nothing. 

"They  are  gazing  still,  Isbel." 

"Who,  and  where?"  For  I  had  quite  for- 
gotten what  he  said  about  the  people  staring  at 
me. 

"And  there  is  Colonel  Hart.  He  sees  us. 
Shall  I  beckon  him  ?" 

"As  you  will." 

Colonel  Hart  came  up  into  our  box.  He 
shook  hands  with  my  husband,  bowed  to  me, 
then  looked  round,  half  curiously,  half  uneasily. 

"  I  thought  there  was  a  friend  with  you." 

"None.     We  have  been  alone  all  evening." 

"  Indeed  ?     How  strange  !" 

"  What !  That  my  wife  and  I  should  enjoy 
a  play  alone  together  ?"  said  Alexis,  smiling. 

"Excuse  me,  but  really  I  was  surprised  to 
find  you  alone.  I  have  certainly  seen  for  the 
last  half  hour  a  third  person  sitting  on  the  chair, 
between  you  both." 

We  could  not  help  starting ;  for,  as  I  stated 
before,  the  chair  had,  in  truth,  been  left  between 
us,  empty. 

"Truly  our  unknown  friend  must  have  been 
invisible.  Nonsense,  Colonel ;  how  can  you 
turn  Mrs.  Saltram  pale,  by  thus  peopling  with 
your  fancies  the  vacant  air  ?" 


"I  tell  you,  Alexis,  said  the  Colonel  (he 
was  my  husband's  old  friend,  and  had  been 
j)resent  at  our  hasty  and  private  marriage), 
•'  nothing  could  be  more  unlike  a  fancy,  even 
were  I  given  to  such.  It  was  a  very  remarka- 
ble person  who  sat  here.  E\cn  strangers  no- 
ticed him." 

"  Him  I"  I  whispered. 

"It  was  a  man,  then,"  said  my  husband, 
rather  angrily. 

"A  very  peculiar-looking,  and  extremely 
handsome  man.  I  saw  many  glasses  leveled  at 
him." 

"What  was  he  like?"  said  Alexis,  rather 
sarcastically.      "Did  he  speak?  or  we  to  him?" 

"No — neither.  "He  sat  quite  still,  in  this 
chair." 

My  husband  turned  away.  If  the  Colone' 
had  not  been  his  friend,  and  so  very  simple- 
minded,  honest,  and  sober  a  gentleman,  I  think 
Alexis  would  have  suspected  some  drunken 
hoax,  and  turned  him  out  of  the  box  imme- 
diatelv.     As  it  was,  he  only  said : 

"  My  dear  fellow,  the  third  act  is  beginning. 
Come  up  again  at  its  close,  and  tell  me  if  you 
again  see  my  invisible  friend,  who  must  find  so 
great  an  attraction  in  viewing,  gratis,  a  dramatic 
performance." 

' '  I  perceive — you  think  it  a  mere  hallucina- 
tion of  mine.  We  shall  see.  I  suspect  the 
trick  is  on  your  side,  and  that  yon  are  harbor- 
ing some  proscribed  Hungarian.  But  I'll  not 
betray  him.     Adieu!" 

"The  ghostly  Hungarian  shall  not  sit  next 
you,  love,  this  time,"  said  Alexis,  trying  once 
more  to  remove  the  chair.  But  possibly,  though 
he  jested,  he  was  slightly  nervous,  and  his  ef- 
forts were  vain.  "What  nonsense  this  is! 
Isbel,  let  us  forget  it.  I  will  stand  behind  you, 
and  watch  the  play." 

He  stood — I  clasping  his  hand  secretly  and 
hard;  then,  I  grew  quieter;  until,  as  the  droj  - 
scene  fell,  the  same  cold  air  swept  past  us.  It 
was  as  if  some  one,  fresh  from  the  sharp  sea- 
wind,  had  entered  the  box.  And  just  at  that 
moment,  we  saw  Colonel  Hart's  and  several 
other  glasses  leveled  as  before. 

"It  is  strange,"  said  Alexis. 

"It  is  horrible,"  I  said.  For  I  had  been 
cradled  in  Scottish,  and  then  filled  with  German 
superstition ;  besides,  the  events  of  my  own  life 
had  been  so  wild,  so  strange,  that  there  was 
nothing  too  ghastly  or  terrible  for  my  imagina- 
tion to  conjure  up. 

"  I  will  summon  the  Colonel.  We  must 
find  out  this,"  said  my  husband,  speaking  be- 
neath his  breath,  and  looking  round,  as  if  he 
thought  he  was  overheard. 

Colonel  Hart  came  up.  He  looked  ^-ery 
serious ;  so  did  a  young  man  who  was  with 
him. 

"Captain  Elmore,  let  me  introduce  you  to 
Mrs.  Saltram.  Saltram,  I  have  brought  my 
friend  here  to  attest  that  I  have  played  off  on 
you  no  unworthy  jest.  Not  ten  minutes  since, 
he,  and  I,  and  some  others  saw  the  same  gen- 


62 


M.  ANASTASIUS. 


tlcman  whom  I  described  to  you  half  an  hour 
ago,  sitting  as  I  described — in  this  chair." 

"Most  certainly — in  this  chair,"  added  the 
young  captain. 

My  husband  bowed ;  he  kept  a  courteous 
calmness,  but  I  felt  his  hand  grow  clammy  in 
mine. 

"  Of  what  appearance,  sir,  was  this  unkno\\Ti 
acquaintance  of  my  wife's  and  mine,  whom 
every  body  appears  to  see  except  ourselves?" 

"  He  was  of  middle  age,  dark-haired,  ])ale. 
His  features  were  very  still,  and  rather  hard  in 
expression.  He  had  on  a  clotii  cloak  with  a 
fur  collar,  and  wore  a  long,  pointed  Charles-the- 
First  beard." 

My  husband  and  I  clung-hand  to  hand  with 
an  inexpressible  horror.     Could  there  be  an-  ^ 
other  man — a  living  man,  who  answered  this 
description  ? 

"I'ardon  me,"  Alexis  said,  faintly.  "The 
portrait  is  rather  vague;  may  I  ask  you  to  re- 
paint it  as  circumstantially  as  you  can?" 

"He  was,  I  repeat,  a  pale,  or  rather  a  sal- 
low-featured man.  His  eyes  were  extremely 
piercing,  cold,  and  clear.  The  mouth  close- 
set — a  very  firm  but  passionless  mouth.  The 
hair  daik,  seamed  with  gray — bald  on  the 
brow — " 

"Oh,  Heaven  I"  I  groaned  in  an  anguish  of 
terror.  For  I  saw  again — clear  as  if  he  had  nev- 
er died — the  face  over  which,  for  twelve  long 
months,  had  swept  the  merciful  sea  waves  otf 
the  shores  of  Hisjianiola. 

"  Can  you,  Caj)tain  Elmore,"  said  Alexis, 
"  mention  no  other  distinguishing  mark  ?  This 
countenance  might  resemble  many  men." 

"I  think  not.  It  was  a  most  remarkable 
face.  It  struck  me  the  more — because — "  and 
the  young  man  grew  almost  as  pale  as  we — "I 
once  saw  another  very  like  it." 

"  You  see — a  chance  resemblance  only.  Fear 
not,  my  darling,''  Alexis  breathed  in  my  car. 
"  Sir,  have  you  any  reluctance  to  tell  me  who 
was  the  gentleman?" 

"It  was  no  living  man,  but  a  corpse  that  we 
last  year  picked  up  off  a  wreck,  and  again  com- 
mitted to  the  deep — in  the  Gulf  of  Mexico.  It 
was  exactly  the  same  face,  and  had  the  same 
mark — a  scar,  cross-shape,  over  one  temple." 

"'Tis  he!  He  can  follow  and  torture  us 
still ;  I  knew  he  could !" 

Alexis  smothered  my  shriek  on  his  breast. 

"  My  wife  is  ill.  This  description  resembles 
slightly  a— a  person  we  once  knew.  Hart,  will 
you  leave  us?  But  no,  wo  must  probe  this 
mystery.  Gentlemen,  will  you  once  more  dc- 
SLcnd  to  the  lower  part  of  tiie  house,  while  we 
remain  here,  and  tell  me  if  you  still  sec  the— 
the  figure,  sitting  in  this  chair?" 

They  went.  We  held  our  breaths.  The 
Jights  in  the  theatre  were  being  extinguished, 
the  audience  moving  away.  No  one  came  near 
our  box  ;  it  was  perfectly  empty.  I'l\ce})t  our 
two  selves,  we  were  conscious  of  no  sight,  no 
sound.  A  few  minutes  after  Colonel  Hart 
knocked. 


"Come  in,"  said  Alexis,  cheerily. 

But,  the  Colonel — the  bold  soldier — shrank 
back  like  a  frightened  child. 

"I  have  seen  him — I  saw  him  but  this 
minute,  sitting  there  1" 

I  swooned  awav. 


CHAPTER  II. 


It  is  right  I  should  briefly  give  you  my  his- 
tory up  to  this  night's  date. 

I  was  a  West  Indian  heiress — a  posthumous, 
and,  soon  afterbirth,  an  orplian  child.  Brought 
up  in  my  mother's  country  until  I  was  sixteen 
years  old,  I  never  saw  my  guardian.  Then  he 
met  me  in  I'aris,  with  my  governess,  and  for  the 
space  of  two  years  we  lived  under  tlie  same  roof, 
seeing  one  another  daily. 

I  was  very  young  ;  I  had  no  fiither  or  broth- 
er ;  I  wished  for  neither  lover  nor  husband ; 
my  guardian  became  to  me  the  one  object  of 
my  existence. 

It  was  no  love-passion ;  he  was  far  too  old 
for  that,  and  I  comparatively  too  young,  at 
least  too  childish.  It  was  one  of  those  insane, 
rapturous  adorations  which  youngmaidens"some- 
times  conceive,  mingling  a  little  of  the  tender- 
ness of  the  woman  with  the  ecstatic  enthusiasm 
of  the  devotee.  There  is  hardly  a  prophet  or 
leader  notfcd  in  the  world's  history  who  has  not 
been  followed  and  worshiped  by  many  such 
women. 

So  was  my  guardian,  M.  Anastasius — not  his 
true  name,  but  it  sufficed  then,  and  will  now. 

Many  may  recognize  him  as  a  known  leader 
in  the  French  political  and  moral  world — as 
one  who,  by  the  mere  force  of  intellect,  wielded 
tlie  most  irresistible  and  silently  complete  power 
of  any  man  I  ever  knew,  in  every  circle  into 
which  he  came ;  women  he  won  by  his  pol- 
ished gentleness — meti  by  his  equally  polished 
strength.  He  would  have  turned  a  compliment 
and  signed  a  deatli-warrant  with  the  same  ex- 
quisitely calm  grace.  Nothing  was  to  him  too 
great  or  too  small.  I  have  known  him,  on  his 
way  to  advise  that  the  I'residont's  soldiers  should 
sweep  a  cannonade  down  the  thronged  street, 
stop  to  pick  up  a  strayed  canary-bird,  stroke  its 
broken  wing,  and  confnlc  it  with  beautiful  ten- 
derness to  his  bosom. 

Oh,  how-  tender !  how  mild  !  how  pitiful  ho 
could  be  ! 

When  I  say  I  loved  him,  I  use,  for  want  of 
a  better,  a  word  which  ill  cxj)resses  that  feeling. 
It  was — Heaven  forgive  me  if  I  err  in  using  the 
similitude;  I — the  sort  of  feeling  the  Shunamite 
woman  might  have  had  for  Elislia.  Keligion 
added  to  its  intensity,  for  I  was  brought  up  a 
devout  Catholic ;  and  he,  whatever  bis  jirivate 
oi)inions  might  have  been,  adhered  strictly  to 
the  forms  of  the  same  Church.  He  was  un- 
married, and  most  peojilc  suj)posed  him  to  be- 
long to  tliat  Order  called — though  often,  alas! 
how  unlike  Him  from  whom  they  assume  their 
name — tlic  Society  of  Jesus. 


M.  ANASTASIUS. 


63 


We  lived  thus  —  I  entirely  worshiping,  he 
guiding,  fondling,  watching,  and  ruling  by 
turns,  for  two  whole  years.  I  was  mistress  of 
a  large  fortune,  and,  though  not  beautiful,  had, 
I  believe,  a  tolerable  intellect,  and  a  keen  wit. 
With  botli  he  used  to  play,  according  as  it  suited 
his  whim — just  as  a  boy  plays  with  fire-works, 
amusing  himself  with  their  glitter — sometimes 
directing  them  against  others,  and  smiling  as 
they  flashed  or  scorched — knowing  that  against 
himself  they  were  utterly  powerless  and  harm- 
less. Knowing,  too,  perhaps,  that  were  it  other- 
wise, he  had  only  to  tread  them  out  under  foot, 
and  stej)  aside  from  the  ashes,  with  the  same 
unmoved,  easy  smile. 

I  never  knew — nor  know  I  to  this  day — wheth- 
er I  was  in  the  smallest  degree  dear  to  him. 
Useful  I  was,  I  tliink,  and  pleasant,  I  believe. 
Possibly  he  liked  me  a  little,  as  the  potter  likes 
his  clay  and  the  skillful  mechanician  his  tools 
— until  the  clay  hardened,  and  the  fine  tools 
refused  to  obey  the  master's  hand. 

I  was  the  brilliant  West  Indian  heiress.  I 
did  not  marry.  Why  should  I?  At  my  house 
— at  least  it  was  called  mine — all  sorts  and 
societies  met,  carrying  on  their  separate  games ; 
the  quiet,  soft  hand  of  M.  Anastasius  playing 
his  game — in,  and  under,  and  through  them  all. 
Mingled  with  this  grand  game  of  the  Morld  was 
a  lesser  one — to  which  he  turned  sometimes, 
just  for  amusement,  or  because  he  could  not 
cease  from  his  metier — a  simple,  easy,  domestic 
game,  of  which  the  battledore  Avas  that  same 
ingenious  hand,  and  the  shuttlecock  my  foolish 
child's  heart. 

Thus  nmch  have  I  dilated  on  him,  and  on 
my  own  life,  during  the  years  when  all  its  strong 
wild  cuiTcnt  flowed  toward  him  ;  that,  in  what 
followed  when  the  tide  turned,  no  one  may  ac- 
cuse me  of  fickleness,  or  causeless  aversion,  or 
insane  terror  of  one  who  after  all  was  only  man, 
"whose  breath  is  in  his  nostrils." 

At  seventeen  I  was  wholly  passive  in  his 
hands ;  he  was  my  sole  arbiter  of  right  and 
wrong — my  conscience — almost  my  God.  As 
my  character  matured,  and  in  a  few  things  I 
began  to  judge  for  myself,  we  had  occasional 
slight  differences — begun,  on  my  part,  in  shy 
humility,  continued  with  vague  doubt,  but  al- 
ways ending  in  penitence  and  tears.  Since  one 
or  other  erred,  of  course  it  must  be  I.  These 
diiferences  were  wholly  on  abstract  points  of 
truth  or  justice. 

It  was  his  taking  me,  by  a  persuasion  that 
was  like  conjpulsion,  to  the  ball  at  the  Tuile- 
ries,  which  was  given  after  Louis  Kapoleon 
Bonaparte  had  seized  the  Orleans  property — and 
it  was  my  watching  my  cousin's  conduct  there, 
his  diplomatic  caution  of  speech,  his  smooth 
smiling  reverence  to  men  whom  I  knew,  and 
fancied  he  knew,  to  be  either  knaves  or  fools — 
that  first  startled  me  concerning  him.  Then  it 
was  I  first  began  to  question,  in  a  trembling, 
terrified  way — like  one  who  catches  a  glimpse 
of  the  miracle-making  priest's  hands  behind  the 
robe  of  tlie  worshiped  idol — whether,  great  as 


M.  Anastasius  was,  as  a  political  ruler,  as  a 
man  of  the  world,  as  a  faithful  member  of  the 
Society  of  Jesus,  he  was  altogether  so  great 
when  viewed  beside  any  one  of  those  whose 
doctrines  he  disseminated,  whose  faith  he  pro- 
fessed. 

He  had  allowed  me  the  New  Testament,  and 
I  had  been  reading  it  a  good  deal  lately.  I 
placed  him,  my  spiritual  guide,  at  first  in  ador- 
ing veneration,  aftenvard  with  an  uneasy  com- 
parison, beside  the  Twelve  Fishermen  of  Galilee 
— beside  the  pattern  of  perfect  manhood,  as  set 
forth  in  the  preaching  of  their  Divine  Lord, 
and  ours. 

There  was  a  difference. 

The  next  time  we  came  to  any  argument — 
always  on  abstract  questions,  for  my  mere  indi- 
vidual will  never  had  any  scruple  in  resigning 
itself  to  his — instead  of  yielding  I  ceased  open 
contest,  and  brought  the  matter  afterward  pri- 
vately to  the  one  infallible  rule  of  right  and 
wrong. 

The  diflfercnce  gi-ew. 

Gradually,  I  began  to  take  my  cousin's  wis- 
dom— perhaps,  even  his  virtues — with  certain 
reser^-ations,  feeling  that  there  was  growing  in 
me  some  antagonistic  quality  which  prevented 
my  full  understanding  or  sympathizing  with  the 
idiosyncrasies  of  his  character. 

"But,"  I  thought,  "  he  is  a  Jesuit ;  he  only 
follows  the  law  of  his  Order,  which  allows  tem- 
porizing, and  diplomatizing,  for  noble  ends.  He 
merely  dresses  up  the  truth,  and  puts  it  in  the 
most  charming  and  safest  light,  even  as  we  do 
our  images  of  the  Holy  Virgin,  adorning  them 
for  the  adoration  of  the  crowd,  but  ourselves 
spiritually  worshij)ing  them  still.  I  do  believe, 
much  as  he  will  dandle  and  play  with  the  truth, 
that  not  for  his  hope  of  heaven  would  Anasta- 
sius stoop  to  a  lie." 

One  day,  he  told  me  he  should  bring  to  my 
saloons  an  Englishman,  his  relative,  who  had 
determined  on  leaving  the  world  and  entering 
the  priesthood. 

"Is  he  of  our  faith?"  asked  I,  indifferently. 

"He  is,  from  childhood.  He  has  a  strong, 
fine  intellect ;  this,  imder  fit  guidance,  may  ac- 
complish great  things.  Once  of  our  Society,  he 
might  be  my  right  hand  in  every  Court  in  Eu- 
rope.    You  will  receive  him?" 

"Certainly." 

But  I  paid  very  little  heed  to  the  stranger. 
There  was  nothing  about  him  striking  or  pecul- 
iar. He  was  the  very  opposite  of  M.  Anasta- 
sius. Besides,  he  was  young,  and  I  had  learned 
to  despise  youth — my  guardian  was  fifty  vears 
old. 

Mr.  Saltram  (jou  will  already  haye  guessed 
that  it  was  he)  showed  equal  indifl^erence  to  me. 
He  watched  me  sometimes,  did  little  kindnesses 
for  me,  but  always  was  quiet  and  silent — a  mere 
cloud  floating  in  the  brilliant  sky,  which  M. 
Anastasius  lit  up  as  its  gorgeous  sun.  For  me, 
I  became  moonlike,  appearing  chiefly  at  my 
cousin's  set  and  rise. 

I  was  not  hajtpy,    I  read  more  in  my  Holy  Book, 


61 


M.  ANASTASIUS. 


and  less  in  my  breviary ;  I  watched  with  keener, 
harder  eyes  my  cousin  Anastasius,  weiglicd  all 
liis  deeds,  listened  to  and  compared  his  words. 
My  intellect  worshiped  him,  my  memoricd  ten- 
derness clung  round  him  still,  but  my  conscience 
had  fled  out  of  his  keeping,  and  made  for  itself 
a  higher  and  purer  ideal.  Measured  with  com- 
mon men,  he  was  godlike  yet — above  all  pas- 
sions, weaknesses,  crimes ;  but  viewed  by  the 
one  perfect  standard  of  man — Christian  man — 
in  charity,  humility,  siu^Ie-miudedncss,  guile- 
lessness,  truth — my  idol  was  no  more.  I  came 
to  look  for  it,  and  found  only  the  empty  shrine. 

lie  went  on  a  brief  mission  to  Rome.  I 
mar^•eled  that,  instead  as  of  yore,  wandering 
sadly  through  the  empty  house,  from  the  mo- 
ment he  quitted  it,  I  breathed  freer,  as  if  a 
weight  were  taken  out  of  the  air.  His  absence 
used  to  be  like  wearisome  ages — now  it  seemed 
hardly  a  week  before  he  came  back. 

I  happened  to  be  sitting  with  his  nephew 
Ale.\is  when  1  heard  his  step  down  the  corridor 
— the  step  which  had  once  seemed  at  every 
touch  to  draw  music  from  the  chords  of  my 
prostrate  heart,  but  which  now  made  it  shrink 
into  itself,  as  if  an  iron-shod  footfall  had  passed 
along  its  strings. 

Anastasius  looked  slightly  surprised  at  seeing 
Ale.\is  and  myself  together,  but  his  welcome 
was  very  kind  to  both. 

I  could  not  altogether  return  it.  I*liad  just 
found  out  two  things  which,  to  say  the  least, 
had  startled  me.  I  determined  to  prove  them 
at  once. 

'•My  cousin,  I  tliought  you  were  aware  that, 
though  a  Catholic  myself,  my  house  is  open, 
and  my  friendship  likewise,  to  honest  men  of 
every  creed.  Why  did  you  give  your  relative 
so  hard  an  impression  of  nie,  as  to  suppose  I 
would  dislike  him  on  account  of  his  faith  ? 
And  why  did  you  not  tell  me  that  Jlr.  Saltrani 
has,  for  some  years,  been  a  Protestant  ?" 

1  know  not  what  reply  he  made  ;  I  know  only 
that  it  was  ingenious,  lengthy,  gentle,  courteous, 
that  for  the  time  being  it  seemed  entirely  satis- 
factory, that  we  spent  all  three  together  a  most 
pleasant  evening.  It  was  only  when  I  lay  down 
on  my  bed,  face  to  face  with  the  solemn  Dark, 
in  which  dwelt  conscience,  truth,  and  God,  that 
I  discovered  how  Anastasius  had,  for  some  se- 
cret— doubtless  blameless,  nay,  even  justifiable 
purpose,  told  of  me,  and  to  me,  two  absolute 
Lies! 

Disguise  it  as  he  might,  excuse  it  as  I  might, 
and  did,  they  were  Lies.  They  haunted  me — 
flapping  their  black  wings  like  a  couple  of 
fiends,  mojiping  and  mowing  l)chind  him  when 
he  came — sitting  on  his  shoulders,  and  mock- 
ing his  beautiful,  calm,  majestic  face — for  days. 
That  was  the  beginning  of  sorrows;  gradnallv 
they  grew  until  they  bhukened  my  whole  world. 

M.  Anastasius  was  bent,  as  he  had  (for  once 
truly)  told  me,  on  winning  iiis  young  ncjjhew 
back  into  the  true  fold,  making  liim  an  instru- 
ment of  that  great  j)urpose  wliiih  was  to  hring 
all  Europe,  the  ropcJoni  iisjjf,  nn.icr  the  power 


of  the  Society  of  Jesus.  Not  thus  alone — a  man 
may  be  forgiven,  nay,  respected,  who  sells  his 
soul  for  an  abstract  cause,  in  which  he  himself 
is  to  be  absorbed  and  forgotten ;  but  in  this  case 
it  was  not — though  I  long  believed  it,  it  was  not 
so.  Carefully  as  he  disguised  it,  I  slowly  found 
out  that  the  centre  of  all  things — the  one  grand 
pivot  upon  which  this  vast  machinery  for  the  im- 
provement, or  rather  government,  of  the  world, 
was  to  be  made  to  turn,  was  M.  Anastasius. 

Ale.\is  Saltram  might  be  of  use  to  him.  He 
was  rich,  and  money  is  power :  an  Englishman, 
and  Englishmen  are  usually  honorable  and  hon- 
ored. Also  there  was  in  him  a  dogged  direct- 
ness of  purpose  that  would  make  him  a  strong, 
if  carefully  guided,  tool. 

However,  the  young  man  resisted.  He  ad- 
mired and  revered  his  kinsman ;  but  he  him- 
self was  very  single-hearted,  stanch,  and  true. 
.Something  in  that  truth,  which  was  the  basis 
of  his  character,  struck  sym])athy  with  mine. 
He  was  far  inferior  in  most  things  to  Anastasius 
— he  knew  it,  I  knew  it — but,  through  all,  this 
divine  element  of  truth  was  patent,  beautifully 
clear.  It  was  the  one  quality  I  had  ever  wor- 
shiped, ever  sought  for,  and  never  found. 

Alexis  and  I  became  friends — equal,  "earnest 
friends.  Not  in  the  way  of  wooing  or  marriage 
— at  least,  he  never  spoke  of  either ;  antl  both 
were  far,  oh,  how  far !  from  my  thought — but 
there  was  a  great  and  tender  bond  between  us, 
which  strengthened  day  by  day. 

The  link  which  riveted  it  was  religion.  He 
was,  as  I  said,  a  Protestant,  not  adhering  to 
any  creed,  but  simply  living — not  preaching, 
but  living — the  faith  of  our  Saviour.  He  was 
not  perfect — he  had  his  sins  and  shortcomings, 
even  as  I.  We  botli  struggling  on  toward 
the  glimmering  light.  So,  after  a  season,  we 
clasped  hands  in  friendship,  and  with  eyes  stead- 
flistly  ujjward,  deterniinetl  to  press  on  together 
toward  the  one  goal,  and  along  the  self-same 
road. 

I  put  my  breviary  aside,  and  took  wholly 
to  the  New  Testament,  assuming  no  name  ei- 
ther of  Catholic  or  Protestant,  Ijut  simply  that 
of  Christian. 

When  I  decided  on  this,  of  course  I  told 
Anastasius.  He  had  ceased  to  be  my  spiritual 
confessor  for  some. time  ;  yet  I  could  see  he  was 
sur[irised. 

"Who  has  done  this?"  was  all  he  said. 

Was  I  a  reed,  then,  to  be  blown  about  with 
every  wind  ?  Or  a  toy,  to  be  shifted  about  from 
hand  to  hand,  and  set  in  motion  just  as  my 
chance  master  chose  ?  Had  I  no  will,  no  con- 
science of  my  own  ? 

He  knew  where  he  could  sting  me — and  did 
it — but  I  let  the  words  pass. 

"Cousin,  I'll  answer  like  Desdemona. 
'  Nobody  ;  I  myself.' 
I  have  had  no  book  but  this — wlmih  you  gave 
me  ;   no  priest,  except  the  inward  witness  of  my 
own  soul." 

"And  Alexis  Saltram. 

Not  said  in  any  wrath,  or  susjiicion,  or  inquiry 


M.  ANASTASIUS. 


65 


— simply  as  the  passive  statement  of  a  fact. 
When  I  denied  it,  he  accepted  my  denial ;  when 
I  protested,  he  suffered  me  to  protest.  My  pas- 
sionate arguments  he  took  in  his  soft  passion- 
less hold — melted  and  moulded  them — turned 
and  twisted  them — then  reproduced  them  to  me 
so  different  that  I  failed  to  recognize  either  my 
own  meaning  or  even  my  own  words. 

After  that,  on  both  sides  the  only  resource 
was  silence. 


CHAPTER  III. 

"I  WISH,"  said  I  to  my  guardian  one  day, 
"  as  I  shall  be  twenty-one  next  year,  to  have 
more  freedom.  I  wish  even" — for  since  the  dis- 
covery of  my  change  of  faith  he  had  watched 
me  so  closely,  so  quietly,  so  continually,  that  I 
had  conceived  a  vague  fear  of  him,  and  a  long- 
ing to  get  away — to  put  half  the  earth  between 
me  and  his  presence — "  I  wish  even,  if  possible 
this  summer,  to  visit  my  estates  in  Hispanio- 
la?" 

"Alone?" 

"No ;  Madame  Gradellc  will  accompany  me. 
And  Mr.  Saltram  will  charter  one  of  his  ships 
for  my  use."  • 

"  I  approve  the  plan.  Alexis  is  going  too, 
I  believe?"  How  could  he  have  known  that 
which  Alexis  had  never  told  me  ?  But  he  knew 
every  thing.  "Madame  Gradelle  is  not  sulh- 
cient  escort.  I,  as  your  guardian,  will  accom- 
pany and  protect  you." 

A  cold  dread  seized  me.  Was  I  never  to  be 
free  ?  Already  I  began  to  feel  my  guardian's 
influence  surrounding  me — an  influence  once 
of  love,  now  of  intolerable  distaste,  and  even 
fear.  Not  that  he  was  ever  harsh  or  cruel — not 
that  I  could  accuse  him  of  any  single  wrong  to- 
ward me  or  others  ;  but  I  knew  I  had  thwarted 
him,  and  through  him  his  cause — that  cause 
whose  strongest  dogma  is,  that  any  means  are 
sacred,  any  evil  consecrated  to  good,  if  further- 
ing the  one  great  end — Power. 

I  had  opposed  him,  and  I  was  in  his  hand — 
that  hand  which  I  had  once  believed  to  have 
almost  superhuman  strength.  In  my  terror  I 
half  believed  so  still. 

"  He  will  go  with  us — we  can  not  escape  from 
him,"  I  said  to  Alexis.  "  He  will  make  you  a 
priest  and  me  a  nun,  as  he  once  planned— I 
know  he  did.    Our  very  souls  are  not  our  own." 

"What,  when  the  world  is  so  wide,  and  life 
so  long,  and  God's  kindness  over  all— when, 
too,  I  am  free,  and  you  will  be  free  in  a  year — 
when—" 

"I  shall  never  be  free.  He  is  my  evil  ge- 
nius.    He  will  haunt  me  till  my  death." 

It  was  a  morbid  feeling  I  had,  consequent  on 
the  awful  struggle  which  had  so  shaken  body 
and  mind.  The  very  sound  of  his  step  made 
me  turn  sick  and  tremble  ;  the  very  sight  of  his 
grand  face — perhaps  the  most  beautiful  I  ever 
saw,  with  its  faultless  features,  and  the  half- 
R 


melancholy  cast  given  by  the  high  bald  fore- 
head and  the  pointed  beard — was  to  me  more 
terrible  than  any  monster  of  ugliness  the  world 
ever  produced. 

He  held  my  fortune — he  governed  my  house. 
All  visitors  there  came  and  went  under  his  con- 
trol, except  Alexis.  Why  this  young  man  still 
came — or  how — I  could  not  tell.  Probably  be- 
cause, in  his  pure  singleness  of  heart  and  pur- 
pose, he  was  stronger  even  than  M.  Anastasius. 

The  time  passed.  We  embarked  on  board 
the  ship  Argo,  for  Hispaniola. 

My  guardian  told  me,  at  the  last  minute,  that 
business  relating  to  Lis  order  would  probably 
detain  him  in  Europe — that  we  were  to  lie  at 
anchor  for  twelve  hours  off  Havre — and,  if  he 
then  came  not,  sail. 

He  came  not — we  sailed. 

It  was  a  glorious  evening.  The  sun,  as  he 
went  down  over  the  burning  seas,  beckoned  us 
with  a  finger  of  golden  fire,  westward — to  the 
free,  safe,  happy  West. 

I  say  vx,  because  on  that  evening  we  first  be- 
gan unconsciously  to  say  it  too — as  if  vaguely 
binding  our  fates  together — Alexis  and  I.  We 
talked  for  a  whole  hour — till  long  after  France, 
with  all  our  old  life  therein,  had  become  a  mere 
line,  a  cloudy  speck  on  the  horizon — of  the  new 
life  we  should  lead  in  Hispaniola.  Yet  all  the 
while,  if  Me  had  been  truly  the  priest  and  nun 
Anastasius  wished  to  make  us,  our  words,  and 
I  believe  our  thoughts,  could  not  have  been 
more  angel-pui-e,  more  free  from  any  bias  of 
human  passion. 

Yet,  as  the  sun  went  down,  and  the  sea-breeze 
made  us  draw  nearer  together,  both  began,  1  re- 
peat, instinctively  to  say  "we,"  and  talk  of  our 
future  as  if  it  had  been  the  future  of  one. 

"Good-evening,  friends!" 

He  was  there — M.  Anastasius ! 

I  stood  petrified.  That  golden  finger  of  hope 
had  vanished.  I  shuddered,  a  captive  on  his 
courteously  compelling  arm — seeing  nothing  but 
his  terrible  smiling  face  and  the  black  wilder- 
ness of  sea.  For  the  moment  I  felt  inclined  lo 
plunge  therein — as  I  had  often  longed  to  plunge 
penniless  into  the  equally  fearsome  v.ilderness 
of  Paris — only  I  felt  sure  he  would  follow  me 
still.  He  would  track  me,  it  seemed,  througii 
the  whole  world. 

"  You  see  I  have  been  able  to  accomplish  the 
voyage  ;  men  mostly  can  achieve  any  fixed  pur- 
pose— at  least  some  men.  Isbel,  this  sea-ah- 
will  bring  you  back  your  bloom.  And,  Alexis, 
my  friend,  despite  those  clear  studies  you  told 
me  of,  I  hope  you  will  bestow  a  little  of  your 
society  at  times  on  my  ward  and  me.  We  will 
bid  you  a  good-evening  now." 

He  transferred  to  his  nephew  my  powerless 
hand  ;  that  of  Alexis,  too,  felt  cold  and  trem- 
bling. It  seemed  as  if  he  likewise  were  suc- 
cumbing to  the  fate  which,  born  out  of  one  man's 
indomitable  will,  dragged  us  asunder.  Ere  my 
guardian  consigned  me  to  Madame  Gradelle, 
he  said,  smiling,  but  looking  me  through  and 
throu 'h, 


C6 


M.  ANASTASIUS. 


"Remember,  my  fair  cousin,  that  Alexis  is 
to  be — must  be — a  priest." 

"It  is  impossible!"  said  I,  stung  to  resist- 
ance. "You  know  he  has  allof:;ether  seceded 
from  the  Catholic  creed ;  he  will  never  return 
to  it.     His  conscience  is  his  own." 

"But  not  his  passions.  He  is  young — I  am 
old.     He  will  be  a  priest  yet." 

"With  a  soft  hand-pressure,  M.  Anastasius  left 
mc. 

Now  b3gan  the  most  horrible  phase  of  my  ex- 
istence. For  four  weeks  we  had  to  live  in  the 
same  vessel,  bounded  and  shut  up  togetlier — 
Anastasius,  Alexis,  and  I ;  meeting  continually 
in  the  soft  bland  atmosphere  of  courteous  calm  ; 
always  in  public — never  alone. 

From  various  accidental  circumstances,  I  dis- 
covered how  M.  Anastasius  was  now  bending 
all  the  powers  of  his  enormous  intellect,  his 
wonderful  moral  influence,  to  compass  his  cher- 
ished ends  with  regard  to  Ale.xis  Saltrara. 

An  overwhelming  dread  took  possession  of 
me.  I  ceased  to  tiiink  of  myself  at  all — my 
worldly  hopes',  prospects,  or  joys — over  which 
this  man's  influence  had  long  hung  like  an  ac- 
cursed  shadow,  a  sun  turned  into  darkness,  the 
more  terrible  because  it  had  once  been  a  sun. 
I  seemed  to  see  M.  Anastasius  only  with  rela- 
tion to  this  young  man,  over  whom  I  knew  he 
once  had  so. great  power.  Would  it  return — 
and  in  what  would  it  result?  Not  merely  in 
the  breaking  off  any  feeble  tie  to  me.  I  scarce- 
ly trembled  for  tiiat,  since,  could  it  be  so  broken, 
it  was  not  worth  trembling  for.  No !  I  trem- 
bled for  Alexis's  soul. 

It  was  a  soul  I  had  gradually  learned — more 
than  ever,  perhaps,  in  this  voyage,  of  which  ev- 
ery day  seemed  a  life,  full  of  temptation,  contest, 
trial — a  soul  pure  as  God's  own  heaven,  tiiat 
hung  over  us  hour  by  hour  in  its  steady  tropic 
blue ;  and  deep  as  the  seas  that  rolled  everlast- 
ingly around  us.  Like  them,  stirring  with  the 
lightest  breath,  often  tempest-tossed,  liable  to 
adverse  winds  and  currents  ;  yet  keeping  far,  far 
below  the  surface  a  divine  tranquillity,  diviner 
than  any  mere  stagnant  calm.  And  tliis  soul, 
full  of  all  rich  impulses,  emotions,  passions — a 
soul  which,  because  it  could  strongly  sympathize 
with,  might  be  able  to  regenerate  its  kind,  M. 
Anastasius  wanted  to  make  into  a  Catholic 
Jesuit  priest — a  mere  machine,  to  work  as  he, 
the  head  machine,  chose  I 

This  was  why  (the  thought  suddenly  struck 
me,  like  lightning)  he  had  told  each  of  us  sever- 
ally concerning  one  another,  those  two  lies.  Be- 
cause we  were  young ;  we  might  love— we  might 
marry ;  there  was  nothing  externally  to  jirevent 
us.  And  then  what  would  become  of  his 
scheme  ? 

I  think  tiiere  was  l)orn  in  me — while  the  most 
passive  slave  to  lawful,  loving  rule — a  faculty  of 
savage  rcsistiince  to  all  unlawful  and  unjust  pow- 
er. Also,  a  something  of  the  female  wild-beast, 
which,  if  alone,  will  lie  tame  and  cowed  in  her 
solitary  den,  to  be  shot  at  by  any  daring  hunt- 
er ;  whereas  if  she  be  uot  alone— if  she  have 


any  love-instinct  at  work  for  cubs  or  mate — her 
whole  nature  changes  from  terror  to  daring, 
from  cowardice  to  fury. 

When,  as  we  neared  the  tropics,  I  saw  Alexis's 
cheek  growing  daily  paler,  and  his  eye  more 
sunken  and  restless  with  some  secret  struggle, 
in  the  which  M.  Anastasius  never  left  him  for 
a  day,  an  hour,  a  minute,  1  became  not  unlike 
that  poor  wild-beast  mother.  It  had  gone  ill 
with  the  relentless  hunter  of  souls  if  he  had 
come  near  me  then. 

But  he  did  not.  For  the  last  week  of  our 
voyage,  JI.  Anastasius  kept  altogether  out  of 
my  way. 

It  was  nearly  over — we  were  in  sight  of  the 
shores  of  Ilispaniola.  Then  we  should  land. 
]\Iy  estates  lay  in  this  island.  Mr.  Saltram's 
business,  I  was  aware,  called  him  to  Barbadoes; 
thence  again  beyond  seas.  Once  parted,  I  well 
knew  that  if  the  power  and  will  of  my  guardian 
could  compass  any  thing — and  it  seemed  to  me 
that  they  were  able  to  compass  every  thing  in 
the  whole  wide  earth — Alexis  and  I  should  never 
meet  again. 

In  one  last  struggle  after  life — after  the  fresh, 
wholesome,  natural  life  which  contact  with  this 
young  man's  true  spirit  had  given  me^^I  de- 
termined to  risk  all. 

It  was  a  rich  tropic  twilight.  We  were  all 
admiring  it,  just  as  three  ordinary  persons  might 
do  who  were  tending  peacefully  to  their  voyage- 
end. 

Yet  Alexis  did  not  seem  at  peace.  A  settled, 
deadly  pallor  dwelt  on  his  face — a  restless  anx- 
iety troubled  his  whole  mien. 

M.  Anastasius  .said,  noticing  the  glowing  trop- 
ic scenery  which  already  dimly  appeared  in  our 
shoreward  view. 

"  It  is  very  grand  ;  but  Europe  is  more  suited 
to  us  grave  Northerns.  You  will  think  so,  Alex- 
is, when  you  are  once  again  there." 

"Are  you  returning?"  I  asked  of  Mr.  Saltrara. 

My  cousin  answered  for  him,  "Yes,  imme- 
diately." 

Alexis  started  ;  then  leaned  over  the  poop  iq 
silence,  and  without  denial. 

I  felt  profoundly  sad.  My  interest  in  Alexis 
Saltram  was  at  this  time — and  bnt  for  the  com- 
pulsion of  op]iosing  power  might  have  ever  been 
— entirely  apart  from  love.  We  might  have 
gone  on  merely  as  tender  friends  for  years  and 
years — at  least  I  might.  Therefore  no  maiden- 
ly consciousness  warned  me  from  doing  what 
my  sense  of  right  impelled  toward  one  who  held 
the  same  faith  as  I  did,  and  whose  life  seemed 
strangled  in  the  same  mesh  of  circumstances 
which  Iiad  nearly  paralyzed  my  own. 

"Alexis,  this  is  our  last  evening;  you  will 
sail  for  luirope — and  we  shall  be  friends  no 
more.  Will  you  take  one  twilight  stroll  with 
mc?" — and  1  extended  my  hand. 

If  he  had  hesitated,  or  shrunk  back  from  me, 
I  would  have  flung  him  to  the  winds,  and  fought 
mv  own  battle  alone  ;  I  was  strong  enough 
now.  But  he  sprang  to  mc,  clung  to  my  hand, 
looked  wildly  in  my  face,  as  if  there  were  the 


M.  ANASTASIUS. 


G7 


sole  light  of  truth  and  trust  left  in  the  world  ; 
and  as  if  even  there,  he  had  begun — or  been 
taught — to  doubt.      He  did  not,  now. 

"Isbel,  tell  me  !  You  still  hold  our  faith — 
you  are  not  going  to  become  a  nun?" 

"Never  !  I  will  offer  myself  to  Heaven  as 
Heaven  gave  me  to  myself — free,  bound  by  no 
creed,  subservient  to  no  priest.  What  is  he, 
but  a  man  that  shall  die,  whom  the  worms 
shall  cover  ?" 

I  said  the  words  out  loud.  I  meant  M.  Anas- 
tasius  to  hear.  But  he  looked  as  if  he  heard 
not ;  only  when  we  turned  up  the  deck,  he 
slowly  followed. 

I  stood  at  bay.  "  Cousin,  leave  me.  I  wish 
to  speak  to  JMr.  Saltram.  Can  not  I  have  any 
friend  but  you  ?" 

"  None,  whom  I  believe  you  would  harm  and 
receive  harm  from." 

"  Dare  you — " 

"  I  myself  dare  nothing;  but  there  is  nothing 
•which  my  Church  does  not  dare.  Converse, 
my  children.  I  hinder  you  not.  The  deck  is 
free  for  all." 

He  bowed,  and  let  lis  pass ;  then  followed. 
Every  sound  of  that  slow,  smooth  step  seemed 
to  strike  on  my  lieart  like  the  tracking  tread  of 
doom. 

Alexis  and  I  said  little  or  nothing.  A  lead- 
en despair  seemed  to  bind  us  closely  round, 
allowing  only  one  consciousness,  that  for  a 
little,  little  time  it  bound  us  together!  He 
held  my  arm  so  fast  that  I  felt  every  throbbing 
of  his  heart.  My  sole  thouglit  was  now  to  sa}' 
some  words  that  should  be  fixed  eternally  there, 
so  that  no  lure,  no  power  might  make  him 
swerve  from  his  faith.  That  faith,  which  was 
my  chief  warranty  of  meeting  liim — never,  oh 
never  in  this  m  orld  !  but  in  the  world  everlast- 
ing. 

Once  or  twice  in  turning  we  came  face  to 
face  with  M.  Anastasius.  He  was  walking  at  his 
usual  slow  pace,  his  hands  loosely  clasped  be- 
hind him,  his  head  bent ;  a  steely  repose — even 
pensiveness,  which  was  his  natural  look — settled 
in  his  grave  eyes.  He  was  a  man  of  intellect 
too  great  to  despise,  of  character  too  spotless  to 
loathe.  The  one  sole  feeling  he  inspired  was 
that  of  unconquerable  fear.  Because  you  saw 
at  once  that  he  feared  nothing  either  in  earth  or 
heaven,  that  he  owned  but  one  influence,  and 
was  amenable  but  to  one  law,  which  he  called 
"the  Church,"  but  which  was  himself. 

Men  like  M.  Anastasius,  one-idea'd,  all-en- 
grossed men,  are,  according  to  slight  variations 
in  their  temperaments,  the  salvation,  the  laugh- 
ing-stock, or  the  terror  of  the  world. 

He  appeared  in  the  latter  form  to  Alexis  and 
me.  Slowly,  surely  came  the  conviction  that 
there  was  no  peace  for  us  on  this  earth  while  he 
stood  on  it;  so  strong,  so  powerful,  that  at 
times  I  almost  yielded  to  a  vague  belief  in  his 
immortality.  On  this  night,  especially,  I  was 
stricken  with  a  horrible — curiosity,  I  think  it 
was — to  see  whether  he  could  die — whether  the 
grave  could  open  her  mouth  to  swallow  him, 


and  death  have  power  upon  his  flesh,  like  that 
of  other  men. 

More  than  once,  as  he  passed  under  a  huge 
beam,  I  thought — should  it  fall  ?  as  he  leaned 
against  the  ship's  side — should  it  give  way? 
But  only,  I  declare  solemnly,  out  of  a  frenzied 
speculative  curiosity,  which  I  would  not  for 
worlds  have  breathed  to  a  human  soul !  I  never 
once  breathed  it  to  Alexis  Saltram,  who  was  his 
sister's  son,  and  whom  he  had  been  kind  to  as 
a  child. 

Night  darkened,  and  our  walk  ceased.  We 
had  said  nothing — nothing ;  except  that  en 
parting,  with  a  kind  of  desperation,  Alexis  bur- 
ied my  hand  tightly  in  his  bosom,  and  whis- 
pered, ' '  To-morrow  ?" 

That  midnight  a  sudden  humcane  came  on. 
In  half  an  hour  all  that  was  left  of  the  good  ship 
Arr/o  was  a  little  boat,  filled  almost  to  sinking 
with  half-drowned  passengers,  and  a  few  sailors 
clinging  to  spars  and  fragments  of  the  wreck. 

Alexis  was  lashed  to  a  mast,  holding  me 
partly  fastened  to  it,  and  partly  sustained  in  his 
arms.  How  he  had  found  and  rescued  me  I 
know  not ;  but  love  is  very  strong.  It  has 
been  sweet  to  me  afterward  to  think  that  I 
owed  my  life  to  him — and  him  alone.  I  was 
the  only  woman  saved. 

He  was  at  the  extreme  end  of  the  mast ;  we 
rested,  face  to  face,  my  head  against  his  shoul- 
der. All  along  to  its  slender  point,  the  sailors 
were  clinging  to  the  spar  like  flies  ;  but  we  two 
did  not  see  any  thing  in  the  world,  save  one 
another. 

Life  was  dim,  death  was  near,  yet  I  think 
we  were  not  unhajipy.  Our  heaven  was  clear ; 
for  between  us  and  Him  to  whom  we  were  going 
came  no  threatening  image,  holding  in  its  re- 
morseless hand  life,  faith,  love.  Death  itself 
was  less  terrible  tlvan  M.  Anastasius. 

We  had  seen  him  among  the  saved  passen- 
gers swaying  in  the  boat ;  then  we  tliought  of 
him  no  more.  We  clung  together,  with  closed 
eyes,  satisfied  to  die. 

"  No  room — off  there!  No  room!"  I  heard 
shouted,  loud  and  savage,  by  the  sailor  lashed 
behind  me. 

I  opened  my  ej'es.  Alexis  Avas  gazing  on 
me  only.  I  gazed,  transfixed,  over  his  shoul- 
der, into  the  breakers  beyond. 

There,  in  the  trough  of  a  wave,  I  saw,  clear 
as  I  see  my  own  right  hand  now,  the  upturned 
face  of  Anastasius,  and  his  two  white,  stretched- 
out  hands,  on  one  finger  of  which  was  his  well- 
known  diamond-ring — for  it  flashed  that  minute 
in  the  moon. 

"Off!"  yelled  the  sailor,  striking  at  him 
with  an  oar.  "  One  man's  life's  as  good  as 
another's.     Off!" 

The  drowning  face  rose  above  the  wave,  the 
eyes  fixed  themselves  full  on  me,  without  any 
entreaty  in  them,  or  wrath,  or  terror — the  long- 
familiar,  passionless,  relentless  eyes. 

I  see  them  now  ;  I  shall  see  them  till  I  die. 
Oh,  would  I  had  died ! 

For  one  brief  second  I  thought  of  tearing  off 


68 


M.  ANASTASIUS. 


the  lashings  and  giving  him  my  place ;  for  I  [  Mrs.  Hart  had  been  traveling  with  us  some 
had  loved  him.  But  youth  and  life  were  strong  weeks.  She  was  a  mild,  sweet-faced  English 
within  me,  and  my  head  was  pressed  to  Alexis's  girl,  who  did  not  much  like  the  Continent,  and 
breast.  was  half  shocked  at  some  of  my  reckless  foreign 

A  fall  minute,  or  it  seemed  so,  was  that  face  ways  on  board  steamboats  and  on  railways. 
above  the  water ;  then  I  watched  it  sink  slowly,  !  She  said  I  was  a  little— just  a  little — too  free. 
down   down.  '  It  might  have  seemed  so  to  her ;  for  my  south- 

ern  blood   rushed  bright  and  warm,   and  my 
manner  of  life  in  France  had  com))letely  oblit- 
erated early  impressions.     Faithful  and  tender 
woman  and  true  wife  as  I  was,  I  believe  I  was 
!  in  some  things  unlike  an  English  woman  or  an 
We,  and  several  others,  were  picked  up  from    English  wife,  and  that  Mrs.  Hart  thought  so. 
the  wreck  of  the  Anjo  by  a  homeward-bound  j      Once — for  being  weak  of  nature  and  fiist  of 
ship.     As  soon  as  we  reached  London  I  became    tongue,  she  often  said  tilings  she  should  not — . 
Alexis's  wife.  ■  there  was  even  some  hint  of  the  kind  dropped 

That  Avhich  happened  at  the  theatre  was  ex-  before  my  husband.  Hetiashed  up — but  laughed 
aetly  twelve   months  after — as  we  believed —    the  next  minute  ;  for  I  was  his,  and  he  loved 


CHAPTER   IV. 


Anastasius  died. 

I  do  not  pretend  to  explain,  I  doubt  if  any 
reason  can  explain,  a  circumstance  so  singular 


me! 

Nevertheless,  that  quick  glow  of  anger  pained 

me — bringing  back  the  recollection  of  many 
— so  impossible  to  be  attributed  to  either  imag-  things  his  uncle  had  said  to  me  of  him,  whi<  h 
ination  or  illusion ;  for,  as  I  must  again  dis-  then  I  heard  as  one  that  hcarcth  not.  The  sole 
tinctly  state,  we  ourselves  saw  nothing.  The  saying  which  remained  on  my  mind  was  one 
apparition,  or  whatever  it  was,  was  visible  only  which,  in  a  measure,  I  had  credited — that  his 
to  other  persons,  all  total  strangers.  ;  conscience  was  in  his  hand,  "but  not  his  pas- 

I  had  a  fever.     When  I  arose  from  it,  and    sions." 
things  took  their  natural  forms  and  relations,         I  hud  known  always — and  rather  rejoiced  in 


this  strange  occurrence  became  mingled  with  the 
rest  of  niy  delirium,  of  which  my  husband  per- 
suaded me  it  was  a  part.  He  took  me  abroad — 
to  Italy — Germany.  He  loved  me  dearly  !  He 
was,  and  he  made  me,  entirely  happy. 

In  our  happiness  we  strove  to  live,  not  merely 
for  one  another,  but  for  all  the  world  ;  all  who 
suffered  and  had  need.  We  did — nor  shrunk 
from  the  doing — many  charities  which  had  first 
been  planned  by  Anastasius,  with  what  motives 
we  never  knew.  While  carrying  them  out,  we 
learned  to  utter  his  name  without  trembling  ; 
remembering  only  that  which  was  beautiful  in 
him  and  his  character,  and  which  we  had  both 
so  worshiped  once. 

In  tlie  furtherance  of  these  schemes  of  good 
it  became  advisaljle  that  we  should  go  to  Paris, 
to  my  former  hotel,  which  still  remained  empty 
there. 

"But  not,  dear  wife,  if  any  uneasiness  or 
lingering  jjain  rests  in  your  mind  in  seeing  the 
old  sjtot.  For  me,  I  love  it !  since  there  I  loved 
Isbel,  before  Isbel  knew  it,  long." 

So  I  smiled  ;  and  went  to  l*aris. 

My  husband  proposed,  and  I  was  not  sorry, 
that  Colonel  Hart  and  his  newly-married  wife 
should  join  us  there,  and  remain  as  our  guests. 
I  shrunk  a  little  from  rciniiabiting  the  familiar 
rooms,  long  shut  up  from  the  light  of  day  ;  and 
it  was  with  comfort  I  heard  my  husband  arrang- 
ing that  a  portion  of  the  hotel  should  be  made 
ready  for  us,  namely,  two  saloons  en  suite,  lead- 
ing out  of  tiie  farther  one  of  which  were  a  cham- 
ber and  dressing-room  for  our  own  use — oj)j)o- 
site  two  similar  apartments  for  the  Colonel  and 
his  lady. 

I  am  thus  minute  for  reasons  that  will  ap- 
pear. 


the  knowledge — that  Alexis  Saltram  could  not 
boast  the  frozen  calm  of  IM.  Anastasius. 

But  I  warned  tame  Eliza  Ilai't,  half  jesting- 
ly, to  take  heed,  and  not  lightly  blame  me  be' 
fore  my  husband  again. 

Reaching  Paris,  we  were  all  very  gay  and 
sociable  together.  Colonel  Hart  was  a  grave, 
honorable  man ;  my  husband  and  I  both  loved 
him. 

We  dined  together — a  lively  pnrtie  quarrcc. 
I  shut  my  eyes  to  the  familiar  objects  about  us, 
and  tried  to  believe  the  rooms  had  never  echoed 
familiar  footsteps  save  those  of  JMrs.  Hart  and 
the  Colonel's  soldierly  tread.  Once  or  so,  while 
silence  fell  over  us,  I  would  start,  and  feel  my 
heart  beating ;  but  Alexis  was  near  me,  and 
altogether  mine.  Therefore  I  feared  not,  even 
here. 

After  coffee,  the  gentlemen  went  out  to  some 
evening  amusement.  We,  the  weary  wives, 
contented  ourselves  with  lounging  about,  dis- 
cussing toilets  and  Paris  sights.  Esj)ecially  the 
fair  Empress  Eugenie — the  wifely  crown  which 
my  old  a\'ersii)n  Louis  Bona})arte  had  chosen  to 
bind  about  his  ugly  brows.  Mrs.  Hart  vas 
anxious  to  see  all,  and  then  fly  back  to  her  be- 
loved London. 

"How  long  is  it  since  you  left  London,  Mrs. 
Saltram  ?" 

"A  year,  I  think.     What  is  to-day?" 

"The  twenty-fifth — no,  the  twenty-sixth  of 
May." 

1  dropped  my  head  on  the  cushion.  Then, 
that  date — the  first  slie  mentioned — had  passeO 
over  unthought  of  by  us.  That  night — the  night 
of  mortal  horror  when  the  Artju  went  down — • 
lay  thus  far  buried  in  the  past,  parted  from  lU 
by  two  blessed  years. 


M.  ANASTASIUS. 


C9 


But  I  found  it  impossible  to  converse  longer 
vritli  Mrs.  Hart ;  so  about  ten  o'clock  I  left  her 
reading,  and  went  to  take  half  an  hour's  rest  in 
my  chamber,  which,  as  I  have  explained,  was 
divided  from  the  salon  by  a  small  boudoir  or 
dressing-room.  Its  only  other  entrance  was 
from  a  door  near  the  head  of  my  bed,  which  I 
went  and  locked. 

It  seemed  uncourteous  to  retire  for  the  night ; 
so  I  merely  threw  my  dressing-gown  over  my 
evening  toilet,  and  lay  down  outside  the  bed, 
dreamily  watching  the  shadows  which  the  lamp 
threw.  This  lamp  was  in  my  chamber ;  but  its 
light  extended  faintly  into  the  boudoir,  sliowing 
the  tall  mirror  there,  and  a  sofa  which  was 
placed  opposite.  Otherwise,  the  little  room  was 
half  in  gloom,  save  for  a  narrow  glint  streaming 
through  the  not  quite  closed  door  of  the  salon. 

I  lay  broad  awake,  but  very  quiet,  contented 
and  happy.  I  was  thinking  of  Alexis.  In  the 
midst  of  my  reverie,  I  heard,  as  I  thought,  my 
maid  trying  the  handle  of  the  door  behind  me. 

"It  is  locked,  "I  said  ;  "come  another  time." 

The  sound  ceased  ;  yet  I  almost  thought  Fan- 
chon  had  entered,  for  there  came  a  rift  of  wind, 
which  made  the  lamp  sway  in  its  socket.  But 
when  I  looked,  the  door  was  closely  shut,  and 
the  bolt  still  fust. 

I  lay,  it  might  be,  half  an  hour  longer.  Then, 
with  a  certain  compunction  at  my  own  discourt- 
esy in  leaving  her,  I  saw  the  salon  door  open, 
and  Mrs.  Hart  appear. 

She  looked  into  the  boudoir,  drew  back  hur- 
riedly, and  closed  the  door  after  her. 

Of  course  I  immediately  rose  to  follow  her. 
Ere  doing  so,  I  remember  particularly  standing 
with  the  lamp  in  my  hand,  arranging  my  dress 
before  the  mirror  iu  the  boudoir,  and  seeing  re- 
flected in  the  glass,  with  my  cashmere  lying  over 
its  cushions,  the  sofa,  unoccupied. 

Eliza  was  standing  thoughtful. 

"  I  ought  to  ask  pardon  for  my  long  absence, 
my  dear  Mrs.  Hart." 

"Oh,  no — but  I  of  you,  for  intruding  in  your 
apartment ;  I  did  not  know  Mr.  Saltram  had 
returned.     Where  is  my  husband  ?" 

"With  mine,  no  doubt!  We  need  not  ex- 
pect them  for  an  hour  yet,  the  renegades." 

"You  are  jesting,"  said  Mrs.  Hart,  half-of- 
fended. "I  know  they  are  come  home.  I  saw 
Mr.  Saltram  in  your  boudoir  not  two  minutes 
since." 

"How?" 

"In  your  boudoir,  I  repeat.  He  was  lying 
on  the  sofa." 

"  Impossible !"  and  I  burst  out  laughing. 
"Unless  he  has  suddenly  turned  into  a  cash- 
mere shawl.     Come  and  look." 

I  flung  the  folding  doors  open,  and  poured  a 
blaze  of  light  into  the  little  room. 

"  It  is  very  odd,"  fidgeted  Mrs.  Hart ;  "very 
odd,  indeed.  I  am  sure  I  saw  a  gentleman  here. 
His  face  was  turned  aside  ;  but  of  course  I  con- 
cluded it  was  Mr.  Saltram.    Very  odd,  indeed !" 

I  still  laughed  at  her,  though  an  uneasy  feel- 
ing was  creeping  over  me.      To  dismiss  it,  I 


showed  her  how  the  door  was  fastened,  and  how 
it  was  impossible  my  husband  could  have  en- 
tered. 

"No;  for  I  distinctly  heard  you  say,  'It  is 
locked  —  come  another  time.'  What  did  you 
mean  by  that  ?" 

"I  thought  it  was  Fanchon." 

To  change  the  subject,  I  began  showing  her 
some  parures  my  husband  had  just  brought  me. 
Eliza  Hart  was  very  fond  of  jewels.  We  re- 
mained looking  at  them  some  time  longer  in 
the  inner-room  where  I  had  been  lying  on  my 
bed  ;  and  then  she  bade  me  good-night. 

"No  light,  thank  you.  I  can  find  my  way 
back  through  the  boudoir.  Good-night.  Do 
not  look  so  pale  to-morrow,  my  dear." 

She  kissed  me  in  the  friendly  English  fashion, 
and  danced  lightly  away,  out  at  my  bedroom 
door  and  into  the  boudoir  adjoining — but  in- 
stantly I  saw  her  reappear,  startled  and  breath- 
■  less,  covered  with  angry  blushes. 
I  "  Mrs.  Saltram,  you  have  deceived  me  !  You 
are  a  wicked  French  woman." 

"Eliza!" 

"You  know  it — you  knew  it  all  along.  I 
will  go  and  seek  my  husband.  He  will  not  let 
me  stay  another  night  in  your  house  !" 

"As  you  will" — for  I  was  sick  of  her  follies. 
"But  explain  yourself." 

"Have  you  no  shame?  Have  you  foreign 
women  never  any  shame  ?  But  I  have  found 
you  out  at  last." 

"Indeed!" 

"There  is — I  have  seen  him  twice  with  my 
own  eyes — tliere  is  a  man  lying  this  minute  in 
your  boudoir — and  he  is  — not  Mr.  Saltram  !" 

Then,  indeed,  I  sickened.  A  deadly  horror 
came  over  me.  No  wonder  the  young  thing, 
convinced  of  my  guilt,  fled  from  me,  appalled. 

For  I  knew  now  whom  she  had  seen. 
****** 

Hour  after  hour  I  must  have  lain  where  I 
fell.  There  was  some  confusion  in  the  house 
— no  one  came  near  me.  It  was  early  daylight 
when  I  woke  and  saw  Fanchon  leaning  over 
me,  and  trying  to  lift  me  from  the  floor. 

"Fanchon — is  it  morning?" 

"Yes,  madame." 

"What  day  is  it?" 

"The  twenty-sixth  of  May." 

It  has  been  he,  then.     He  followed  us  still. 

Shudder  after  shudder  convulsed  me.  I  think 
Fanchon  thought  I  was  dying. 

"  Oh,  madame  !  oh,  poor  madame  !  And 
monsieur  not  yet  come  home." 

I  uttered  a  terrible  cry — for  my  heart  fore- 
boded what  either  had  happened  or  assuredly 
would  happen. 

Alexis  never  came  home  again. 

An  hour  after,  I  was  sent  for  to  the  little 
woodcutter's  hut,  outside  Paris  gates,  where  he 
lay  dying. 

Anastasius  had  judged  clearly ;  my  noble 
generous  husband  had  in  him  but  one  thing 
lucking — his  passions  were  "not  in  his  hand." 
When  Colonel  Hart,  on  the  clear  testimony  of 


70 


M.  ANASTASIUS. 


his  wife,   impugned   his  v.ifc's   honor,  Alexis 
challenged  him — fought,  and  fell. 

It  all  happened  in  an  hour  or  two,  when  their 
Wood  was  fiery  hot.  By  daylight,  the  colonel 
stood,  cold  as  death,  ])ale  as  a  sliadow,  by 
Alexis's  bedside.  He  had  killed  him,  and  lie 
loved  him ! 

No  one  thought  of  mc.  They  let  me  weep 
near  my  husband  —  unconscious  as  he  was  — 
doubtless  believing  them  the  last  contrite  tears 
of  an  adulteress.  I  did  not  heed  nor  deny  that 
horrible  name — Alexis  was  dying. 

Toward  evening  he  revived  a  little,  and  his 
senses  returned.  He  opened  his  eyes  and  saw 
me — they  closed  with  a  shudder. 

"Alexis— Alexis!" 

"Isbel,  I  am  dying.  You  know  the  cause. 
In  the  name  of  God — are  you — " 

"In  tlie  name  of  God,  I  am  your  pure  wife, 
who  never  loved  any  man  but  you." 

"I  am  satisfied.     I  thought  it  was  so." 

He  looked  at  Colonel  Hart,  faintly  smiling ; 
then  opened  his  arms  and  took  me  into  them; 
as  if  to  protect  me  with  his  last  breath. 

' '  Now,  "he  said,  still  holding  me,  "my  friends, 
we  must  make  all  clear.  Nothing  must  harm 
her  when  I  am  gone.  Hart,  fetch  your  wife 
here." 

Mrs.  Hart  came,  trembling  violently.  My 
husband  addressed  her. 

"I  sent  for  you  to  ask  you  a  question.  An- 
swer, as  to  a  dying  person,  who  to-morrow  will 
know  all  secrets.  Who  was  the  man  you  saw 
in  my  wife's  chamber?" 

"  He  was  a  stranger  to  me.  I  never  met  him 
before,  any  where.  He  lay  on  the  sofa,  wrapped 
in  a  fur  cloak." 

"  Did  you  see  his  face  ?" 

"  Not  the  first  time.    The  second  time  I  did." 

"What  was  he  like?  Be  accurate,  for  the 
sake  of  more  than  life — honor." 

Jly  husband's  voice  sank.  There  was  terror 
in  his  eyes,  but  not  t/uU  teiTor — he  held  me  to 
his  bosom  still. 

"  What  was  he  like,  Eliza?"  repeated  Colo- 
nel Hart. 

"He  was  middle-aged;  of  a  pale,  grave 
countenance,  with  keen,  large  eyes,  high  fore- 
head, and  a  pointed  beard." 

"Heaven  save  us!  I  have  seen  him  too," 
cried  the  Colonel,  horror-struck.  ' '  It  was  no 
living  man." 

"It  was  M.  AnastasiusI" 

My  husband  died  that  night.  He  died,  his 
lips  on  mine,  murmuring  how  dearly  he  loved 
me,  and  how  liajiiiv  he  had  been. 

For  many  months  after  then  I  was  quite 
liappy,  too;  for  my  wits  wandered,  and  I 
thought  1  was  again  a  little  West  Indian  giil, 
picking  gowans  in  the  meadows  about  Dum- 
fries. 

The  Colonel  and  Mrs.  Hart  were,  I  believe, 
very  kind  to  me.  I  always  took  her  f(jr  a 
little  playfellow  I  had,  wlio  was  called  Eliza. 
It  is  only  lately,  as  the  year  has  circled  round 
again  to  the  s]jrin^',  that  my  head  has  become 


clear,  and  I  have  found  out  who  she  is,  and— 
ah,  me  I — who  I  am. 

This  coming  to  my  right  senses  does  not  give 
me  so  much  pain  as  they  thought  'it  would  ;  be- 
cause great  weakness  of  body  has  balanced  and 
soothed  my  mind. 

I  have  but  one  desire :  to  go  to  my  own 
Alexis ;  and  before  the  twenty-fifth  of  ISIay. 

Now  I  have  been  able  nearl}'  to  complete  our 
story,  which  is  well.  ^My  friend,  judge  be- 
tween us — and  him.     Farewell. 

ISBEL   SaLTRA3I. 


CHAPTER  V. 


I  THINK  it  necessary  that  I,  Eliza  Hart,  should 
relate,  as  simply  as  veraciously,  the  circum- 
stances of  Mrs.  Saltram's  death,  which  happened 
on  the  night  of  the  twenty-fiftli  of  ^Nlay. 

She  was  living  with  us  at  our  house,  some 
miles  out  of  London.  She  had  been  very  ill 
and  weak  during  May,  but  toward  the  end  of 
tlie  montli  she  revived.  We  thought  if  she 
could  live  till  June  she  might  even  recover. 
My  husband  desired  that  on  no  account  might 
she  be  told  the  day  of  the  month  ;  she  ■was,  in- 
deed, ])uri)osely  deceived  on  the  subject.  When 
the  twenty-fifth  came,  she  thought  it  was  only 
the  twenty-second. 

For  some  weeks  .she  had  kept  her  bed,  and 
Fanchon  never  left  her — Fanchon,  who  knew 
the  whole  history,  and  Avas  strictly  charged, 
whatever  delusions  might  occur,  to  take  no  no- 
tice whatever  of  the  subject  to  her  mistress. 
For  my  husband  and  myself  were  again  per- 
suaded that  it  must  be  some  delusion.  So  was 
the  physician,  who  nevertheless  determined  to 
visit  us  himself  on  the  night  of  the  twenty-fifth 
of  May. 

It  happened  that  the  Colonel  was  unwell,  and 
I  could  not  remain  constantly  in  Mrs.  Saltram's 
room.  It  was  a  large  but  very  simple  suburban 
bedchamber,  with  white  curtains  and  modern 
furniture,  all  of  wiiich  I  myself  arranged  in  such 
a  manner  tluvt  there  should  be  no  dark  corners, 
no  shadows  thrown  by  hanging  draperies  or 
any  thing  of  the  kind. 

About  ten  o'clock  at  night  Fanchon  acci- 
dentally quitted  her  mistress  for  a  few  minutes, 
sending  in  her  place  a  nursemaid  who  had  lately 
conic  into  our  family. 

This  girl  tells  me  that  she  entered  the  room 
quickly,  but  stopped,  seeing,  as  she  believed, 
the  physician  sitting  by  the  bed,  on  the  further 
side,  at  Mrs.  Saltram's  rigiit  hand.  She  thought 
Mrs.  Saltram  did  not  see  him,  for  she  turned 
and  asked  her,  tiie  nursemaid — "  Susan,  what 
o'clock  is  it?" 

Tlie  gentleman  did  not  speak.  She  says  he 
appeared  sitting  with  liis  elbows  resting  on  his 
knees,  and  his  face  partly  concealed  in  his 
hands.  He  wore  a  long  coat  or  cloak — she 
could  not  distinguish  wiiich,  for  the  room  was 
rather  dark,  but  she  could  plainly  see  on  his 
little  finger  the  sparkle  of  a  diamond  ring. 


M.  ANASTASIUS. 


71 


She  is  quite  certain  that  Mrs.  Saltram  did 
not  see  tlie  gentleman  at  all,  which  rather  sur- 
prised her,  for  the  poor  lady  moved  from  time 
to  time,  and  spoke,  complainingly,  of  its  being 
"very  cold."  A.t  length  she  called  Susan  to 
sit  by  her  side,  and  chafe  her  hands. 

Susan  acquiesced — "But  did  not  Mrs.  Sal- 
tram  see  the  gentleman  ?" 

"What  gentleman?" 

"He  was  sitting  beside  you  not  a  minute 
since.  I  thought  he  was  the  doctor,  or  the 
clergyman.     He  is  gone  now." 

And  the  girl,  much  temfied,  saw  that  there 
was  no  one  in  the  room. 

She  says  Mrs.  Saltram  did  not  seem  terrified 
at  all.  She  only  pressed  her  hands  on  her  fore- 
head, her  lips  slightly  moving — then  whisper- 
ed :  "Go,  call  Fanchon  and  them  all,  tell  them 
what  you  saw." 

"But  I  must  leave  you.    Arc  you  not  afraid?" 

"No.     Not  now — not  now." 

She  covered  her  eyes,  and  again  her  lips  be- 
gan moving. 

Fanchon  entered,  and  I  too,  immediately. 

I  do  not  expect  to  be  credited.  I  can  only 
state  on  my  honor  what  we  both  then  beheld. 

Mrs.  Saltram  lay,  her  eyes  open,  her  face 
quite  calm,  as  that  of  a  dying  person;  her 
hands  spread  out  on  the  counterpane.  Beside 
her  sat  erect  the  same  figure  I  had  seen  lying 
on  the  sofa  in  Paris,  exactly  a  year  ago.  It  ap- 
peared more  lifelike  than  she.  Neither  looked 
at  eacli  other.  When  we  brought  a  bright  lamp 
into  the  room  the  appearance  vanished. 

Isbel  said  to  me,  "  Eliza,  he  is  come." 

"  Impossible !     You  have  not  seen  him?" 

"No,  but  you  have  ?"  She  looked  me  stead- 
ily in  the  face.  "I  knew  it.  Take  the  light 
away,  and  you  will  see  him  again.  He  is  here, 
I  want  to  speak  to  him.  Quick,  take  the  light 
away." 

Alarmed  as  I  was,  I  could  not  refuse,  for  I 
saw  by  her  features  that  her  last  hour  was  at 
hand. 

As  surely  as  I  write  this,  I,  Eliza  Hart,  saw, 
when  the  candles  were  removed,  that  figure 
grow  again,  as  out  of  air,  and  become  plainly 
distinguishable,  sitting  by  her  bedside. 


She  turned  herself  with  difficulty,  and  faced 
it.  "  Eliza,  is  he  there  ?  I  see  nothing  but  the 
empty  chair.     Is  he  there  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Does  he  look  angry  or  terrible?" 

"No." 

"Anastasius."  She  extended  her  hand  to- 
ward the  vacant  chair.      "Cousin  Anastasius !" 

Her  voice  was  sweet,  though  tlie  cold  drops 
stood  on  her  brow. 

"Cousin  Anastasius,  I  do  not  see  you,  but 
you  can  see  and  hear  me.  I  am  not  afraid  of 
you  now.  You  know,  once,  I  loved  you  very 
much." 

Here,  overcome  with  terror,  I  stole  back  to- 
ward the  lighted  stair-case.  Thence  I  still  heard 
Isbel  speaking. 

"We  erred,  both  of  us,  cousin.  You  were 
too  hard  upon  me — I  had  too  great  love  first, 
too  great  terror  afterward  of  you.  Why  should 
I  be  afraid  of  a  man  that  shall  die,  and  of  the 
son  of  man,  whose  breath  is  in  his  nostrils  ?  I 
should  have  \\orshiped,  have  feared,  not  you, 
but  only  God." 

She  paused — drawing  twice  or  thrice,  heavily, 
the  breath  that  could  not  last. 

' '  I  forgive  you — for^^ive  me  also !  I  loved 
you.  Have  you  any  thing  to  say  to  me,  Anas- 
tasius?" 

Silence. 

"  Shall  we  ever  meet  in  the  boundless  spheres 
of  Heaven  ?" 

Silence — a  long  silence.  We  brought  in  can- 
dles, for  she  was  evidently  dying. 

"Eliza — thank  you  for  all !  Your  hand.  It 
is  so  dark — and" — shivering — "I  am  afraid  cf 
going  into  the  dark.  I  might  meet  Anastasius 
there.     I  wish  my  husband  would  come." 

She  was  wandering  in  her  mind,  I  saw.  Her 
eyes  turned  to  the  vacant  chair. 

"Is  there  any  one  sitting  by  me?" 

"No,  dear  Isbel ;  can  you  see  any  one  ?" 

"  No  one — yes"  —  and  with  preternatural 
strength  she  started  right  up  in  bed,  extend- 
ing her  arms.  "Yes!  There — close  behind 
you — I  see — my  husband.  I  am  quite  safe — 
now!" 

So,  with  a  smile  upon  her  face,  'she  died. 


THE  WATER  CURE. 


"  Having  our  hearts  sprinkled  from  an  evil  conscience,  and  our  bodies  washed  with  pure  water.' 


CHAPTER  I. 

"Now,  if  I  knew — Lord  help  mc !  I  often 
feel  as  if  I  did  not  know — whether  the  next  life 
be  any  better  than  this,  whetlicr  getting  rid  of 
the  body  be  any  advantage  to  the  soul — I  would 
gladly  die  to-morrow!" 

' '  By  Jove !  Alick,  /  haven't  the  slightest  wish 
of  thekind." 

We  two — Austin  Hardy  and  Alexander  Fyfe 
— as  we  sat  over  the  fire  in  my  lodgings,  in  Bur- 
ton Crescent,  were  not  bad  ty])es  of  two  classes 
of  men,  not  rare  in  this  our  day,  who  may  stand 
convicted  as  moral  suicides — mind-murderers 
and  body-murderers. 

We  were  cousins,  but  at  the  o])posite  poles  of 
society — he  was  rich,  I  jjoor.  The  world  lured 
him,  and  scouted  me ;  its  pit  of  perdition  was 
opened  wide  for  us  both ;  but  he  was  kissed, 
and  I  was  kicked,  into  it.  Now  we  both  found 
ourselves  clinging  to  its  brink,  and  glaring  help- 
lessly at  one  another  from  opposite  sides,  won- 
dering which  would  be  the  first  to  let  go,  and 
drop  to — where  ? 

It  was  the  1st  of  November.  I  had  sat  hour 
after  hour,  the  MS.  of  my  last  book  before  me  ; 
the  finished  half  on  my  left  hand  grinned  at  the 
unfinished  half  on  my  right — to  wit,  a  heap  of 
blank  sheets,  at  least  two  hundred.  Two  hun- 
dred pages  that,  by  Christmas,  must  be  covered 
— covered,  too,  with  the  best  fruit  of  my  soul, 
my  heart,  and  my  brains ;  else  my  dear  friend 
the  public  would  say,  compassionately,  "Poor 
fellow  !  lie  has  written  himself  out ;"  or,  snecr- 
ingly,  "  If  these  authors  did  not  know  when  to 
stop !" 

Stop  ?  —  with  life  and  all  its  daily  needs, 
duties,  pleasantnesses  (pshaw  !  I  may  draw  my 
pen  through  that  word),  hammering  incessantly 
at  the  door !  With  old  Age's  ugly  face,  soli- 
tary and  poor,  jiceping  in  at  the  window — Stop, 
indeed  I 

I  had  been  in  this  agreeable  frame  of  mind, 
when  my  cousin  Austin  lounged  into  my  room. 

"Do  I  interrupt  you  ?"  be  said,  for  he  was  a 
kiiully-hearted  fellow,  though  not  over-burden- 
ed with  brains,  and  ^vholly  nninitiate  in  tlie  life 
of  literature. 

"Interrupt  I  no,  my  good  fellow.  I  wish 
you  did,"  »aid  I,  with  a  groan.  "There  is  no- 
thing to  intcrrnj)t.  (Jne  might  as  well  spin  a 
thrcad-of-gold  gown  out  of  tliat  sjiider-liiic 
dangling  from  the  ceiling,  as  weave  a  story  out 


of  this  skull  of  mine — this  squeezed  sponge, 
this  collapsed  bladder ;  it's  good  for  nothing 
but  to  be  a  dining-hall  to  a  select  party  of 
worms." 

"Eh?"  said  he,  innocently  uncomprehend- 
ing. 

"Never  mind.  What  of  yourself.  Hardy? 
How  is  the  hunting  and  the  shooting,  the  bet- 
ting and  the  play-going,  the  dinner-parties,  the 
balls?" 

"All  over." 

He  shook  his  head,  and  a  severe  fit  of  cough- 
ing convulsed  his  large,  strong-built  frame. 

"I'm  booked  for  the  other  world.  Pwish 
you  were  my  heir." 

"Thank  you  ;  but,  for  so  brief  a  possession, 
it  wouldn't  be  worth  my  while." 

I  lit  a  candle,  and  we  stood  contemplating 
one  another.  Finally,  we  each  made  the  re- 
mark with  which  I  have  commenced  this  his- 
tory.    Let  me  continue  it  now. 

"Why  do  you  want  to  die,  Alexander  Fyfe  ?" 

"To  escape  the  trouble  of  living.  Live! — 
it's  only  existing ;  I  don't  live — I  never  lived. 
What  is  life  but  having  one's  full  powers  free  to 
use,  to  command,  to  enjoy  ?  I  have  none  of 
these.  My  body  hampers  my  mind,  my  mind 
destroys  my  body,  and  circumstances  make 
slaves  of  both.  I  look  without — every  thing  is 
a  blank  ;  within — " 

I  beg  to  state  to  the  reader,  as  I  did  to  Aus- 
tin the  next  minute,  that  I  am  not  used  to 
whine  in  this  way  ;  but  I  was  ill,  and  I  had  sat 
for  five  hours  with  a  blank  page  before  me,  upon 
wiiich  I  had  written  pi'ccisely  five  lines. 

Austin's  face  expressed  the  utmost  astonish- 
ment. 

"  Why,  I  didn't  know  any  thing  amiss  with 
7/on ;  you  always  seem  to  mc  the  ha])piest  fel- 
low alive.  A  successful  autlior,  with  only  your- 
self to  look  after — no  i)roi)erty,  no  establish- 
ment, no  responsibilities ;  just  a  little  bit  of 
writing  to  do  each  day,  and  be  i)aid  for  it,  and 
all's  right." 

I  laughed  at  his  amusing  unsophisticated  no- 
tion of  an  author's  existence. 

"Then,  so  hermit-like  as  you  live  here,  all 
among  your  books.  My  j)oor  dear  aunt  iierself 
if  she  could  sec  you — " 

"Hush!  Austin." 

*'  Well,  I  will ;  but  all  the  world  knows  what 
a  good  woman  she  was,  and  you  take  after  her. 
You  live  like  a  saint,  and  have  uo  temjitation 


THE  WATER  CURE. 


73 


to  be  otherwise.  Now,  I  am  obliged  to  go  post- 
haste to  destruction,  if  only  to  save  myself  from 
dying  of  ennui." 

Another  fit  of  coughing  cut  him  short.  I  for- 
got my  own  despair  in  pitying  his,  for  he  seemed 
to  hold  that  cheating  vixen  Life  with  such  a 
frantic  clutch,  and  she  was  so  visibly  slipping 
from  him.  There,  at  least,  I  felt  myself  better 
off  than  he.  This  world  was  all  my  terror  ;  of 
that  to  come,  dark  as  its  mysteries  were,  I  had 
no  absolute  fear. 

"  You're  hard  up,  Austin,  my  boy.  What 
are  you  going  to  do  ?" 

"Notliing.  It  isn't  consumption,  they  say. 
It  will  turn  to  asthma,  most  likely.  All  my 
own  doings,  the  doctors  say — would  have  knock- 
ed up  the  finest  constitution  in  the  world,  which 
I  had  ten  years  ago" — with  a  piteous  groan. 

"Well,  confess.     What  has  done  it?" 

"  Smoking,  late  hours,  and,"  after  a  pause, 
"  hard  drinking." 

"Whew  !"  It  was  a  very  dolorous  whistle,  I 
believe. 

"  What  is  a  fellow  to  do  ?"  said  Hardy,  rath- 
er sullenly.  "Life  is  so  confoundedly  slow? 
You  want  excitement — ^}ou  take  to  the  turf  or 
the  gaming-table.  If  you  win,  you  must  drink 
and  be  jolly  ;  if  you  lose,  why  drink,  and  drown 
care.  Then  other  perjilexities  —  womankind, 
for  instance :  you  run  after  an  angel,  and  find 
her  out  something  on  the  other  side  of  human- 
ity ;  or  she's  sharp  and  clever,  makes  a  mock  of 
you,  and  man-ies  your  friend ;  or  she  tries  to 
jump  down  your  throat,  and  you  might  have 
her  so  cheap,  she  isn't  Avorth  the  winning  ?" 

"Is  tliat  the  fiict  in  your  case?" 

"My  lad,  you'd  find  it  so,  if  you  had  ten 
thousand  a  year." 

This  was  a  doubtful  compliment,  certainly ; 
but  lie  meant  it  in  all  simjdicity.  Besides,  I 
knew  enough  of  his  affairs  to  be  aware  that  the 
circumstances  he  mentioned  in  this  impersonal 
fonn  were  literally  true. 

"  I  wonder,  cousin,  you  are  not  weary  of  this 
hunting  after  shadows.  Why  don't  you  mar- 
ly?" 

"  Marry  !  I  ? — to  leave  a  wife  a  widow  next 
year.  Though  that  would  raise  my  value  in 
the  market  immensely.  Seriously,  Alick,  do 
you  think  there  is  any  woman  in  the  world  worth 
marrying  ?     I  don't,  and  never  did." 

I  was  silent.  Afterward  he  said,  in  an  alter- 
ed tone — 

"1  did  not  quite  mean  'never.'  Was  she 
fifteen  or  sixteen  when  she  died,  Alexander  ?" 

I  knew  he  was  thinking  of  his  old  child  sweet- 
heart, my  little  sister  Mary. 

"No,  no;  marrying  is  out  of  the  question. 
Whether  I  die  early  or  late,  I  shall  certainly 
die  a  bachelor.     Shall  you  ?" 

"  Very  probably." 

And,  as  I  glanced  at  the  two  hundred  blank 
pages,  and  the  two  hundred  more  scrawled  over, 
I  hugged  .  yself  in  the  knowledge  that,  if  it 
came  to  starvation,  there  was  only  one  to  starve 
— no  jialc  wife,  fading  slowly  from  a  dream  of 


beauty  into  a  weak  slattern,  peevish  and  sad ; 
no  sickly  children,  wailing  reproaches  into  the 
father's  heart,  not  only  for  tlieir  lost  birthright, 
but  for  their  very  birth.  "  No,"  I  thought,  with 
set  teeth  and  clenched  palms,  as  if  the  time  of 
my  youth  were  a  bitter  fruit  between  my  lips,  or 
a  poison-fiower  in  my  hands,  and  I  were  grind- 
ing both  to  powder— "No,  as  old  Will  hath  it, 
'jfi's  better  as  it  is  .'" 

"  Still,"  cried  I,  rousing  myself,  for  poor  Aus- 
tin's case  was  worse  than  mine,  and  he  had 
more  responsibilities  in  the  world — "  still  life  is 
worth  a  struggle,  and  you  know  you  hate  your 
next  heir.  Once  more,  what  are  you  going  to 
do  ?" 

"  I  don't  know." 

"Have  you  any  doctor?" 

"  Three." 

"  Then  vou  are  a  dead  man,  Austin  Hardy." 

"  So  I  believe." 

Again  a  long  pause. 

"  I  can't  leave  3  ou  this  estate,  Alick,  you 
know,  and  I  have  spent  most  of  my  rendy 
money  ;  but  I  have  left  you  my  cellar  atid  my 
stud — they  will  be  worth  a  thousand  or  two  ;  so 
you  needn't  kill  yourself  with  this  sort  of  work," 
pointing  to  the  MS.,  "  for  a  few  years  to  come. 
Tliat  w  ill  be  one  good  out  of  my  dving." 

"  Jly  dear  boy,  if  you  say  another  woid  about 
dying,  I'll — you  see  Corrie's  Afghan  cutlass 
there — I'll  assassinate  you  on  the  spot." 

"  Thank  you." 

"By-tlie-by,"  and  a  sudden  brilliant  thought 
darted  into  my  mind,  "  did  you  ever  meet  my 
friend  Corrie  ?" 

"No." 

"  The  finest,  wholcsomest,  cheeriest  fellow, 
w  ith  a  head  big  enough  to  hold  two  men's  brains, 
and  a  heart  as  large  as  his  head.  I  had  a  let- 
ter from  him  this  morning.  He  ga^e  up  army 
service  some  time  since,  began  London  practice 
— searched  fairly  and  honorably  into  all  the 
nonsense  going — tried  allopathy,  homoeopathy, 
kinesopathy,  and.  Heaven  knows,  how  many  pa- 
thies  besides ;  and  has  finally  thrown  them  all 
aside,  and,  in  conjimction  witli  his  father.  Dr. 

Corrie,  has  settled  in  shire,  and  there  set 

up  a  water  cure." 

"  A  what  did  you  say  ?" 

"  A  hydropathic  establishment — a  water  cure. 
Have  you  never  heard  of  such  places?"' 

"Ah,  yes,  where  people  sit  in  tubs  all  day, 
and  starve  on  sanitary  diet,  and  walk  on  their 
own  legs,  and  go  to  bed  at  nine  o'clock — bar- 
barians !" 

"  Exactly.  They  cut  civilization,  with  all  its 
evils,  and  go  back  to  a  state  of  nature.  Suppose 
you  were  to  try  it ;  you  have  so  long  been  living 
'agin  nature,'  as  says  our  friend  Nath.inicl 
Bumppo— but  I  forget,  you  don't  read— that  if 
you  were  to  return  to  her  motherly  arms,  she 
might  take  you  in,  and  cure  you — eh  ?" 

"  Couldn't— impossible." 

So  many  possibilities  frequently  grew  out  of 
Hardy's  "  imjiossible"  that  1  was  not  a  whit  dis- 
couraged. 


74 


THE  WATER  CURE. 


' '  Here  is  Corrie's  letter,  with  a  view  of  his 
house  on  the  top  of  the  page.'" 

"A  pretty  jilace." 

"Beautiful,  he  says  ;  and  James  Corrie  has 
visited  half  the  fine  scenery  in  the  world.  You 
see,  he  wants  me  to  go  down  there,  even  with- 
out trying  what  he  calls  '  the  treatment.'  " 

"And  why  don't  you?" 

I  laid  my  hand  on  the  blank  MS.  leaves — 

"Impossible." 

Austin  soon  after  went  away.  I  shut  tlie 
shutters,  stirred  the  fire,  rang  for  the  student's 
best  friend — a  cup  of  hot  tea,  no  bread  there- 
with. Yes,  though  rather  hungry,  1  dared  not 
eat;  we  head-workers  are  obliged  to  establisli  a 
rigorous  division  of  labor  between  the  stomach 
and  the  brain.  Ugh!  that  one  jjiece  of  dry  toast 
would  spoil  at  least  four  possible  jiages — can't 
be !  And  that  uncut  magazine,  with  a  friend's 
article  therein,  how  temjiting  it  looks !  But 
no;  if  I  treat  myself  with  his  fiction  I  shall  lose 
the  thread  of  my  own  ;  and  if  I  sit  thus,  staring 
into  the  cozy  fire,  I  shall  go  dream  and  tlien — . 
Now  for  it.  Approach,  my  MS.,  that  I  used  so 
to  love — you  friend,  you  mistress,  you  beloved 
child  of  my  soul  I  How  comes  it  that  you  have 
grown  into  a  fiend,  who  stands  ever  beliind  me, 
goading  me  on  with  points  of  steel,  ready  to 
pierce  me  whenever  I  drop !  But  many  a  hu- 
man friend,  mistress,  or  child  does  just  the  same. 

Now,  surely  I  can  work  to-night.  Come 
back,  dreams  of  my  youth !  I  am  writing  about 
folk  that  are  young ;  so  let's  get  up  a  good  love 
scene — a  new  sort  of  thing,  if  I  can — for  I  have 
done  so  many,  and  reviews  say  I  am  grown 
"artificial."  Reviews!  Ten  years  ago  what 
cared  I  for  reviews !  I  wrote  my  soul  out — 
wrote  the  truth  that  was  in  me — fresh,  bursting 
truth,  that  would  be  uttered,  and  w  ould  be  heard. 
To  writ3  at  all  was  a  glory,  a  rapture — a  shout- 
ing out  of  songs  to  the  very  w  oods  and  fields,  as 
children  do.  I  wrote  beiause  I  loved  it — be- 
cause I  could  not  help  it — because  the  stream 
that  was  in  me  would  pour  out.  Where  is  that 
bri;;ht,  impetuous,  flashing,  tumbling  river  now? 
Dwindled  to  a  dull  sluice,  that  all  my  digging 
and  draining  will  only  coax  on  for  a  mile  or  two 
in  a  set  channel — and  it  runs  dry. 

Well,  now  for  the  page.  These  five  lines 
—  rich  day's  work  —  what  driveling  inanity! 
There  it  goes  into  the  flame.     Let's  start  afresli. 

Once,  twice,  thrice,  four  times,  a  new  page 
flies,  in  fine,  curling  si)arkles,  up  the  cliininey. 
Thank  Heaven,  I  have  sufficient  wit  left,  at 
least,  to  see  that  I  am  a  dull  fool.     Try  again. 

This  time  comes  nothing!  My  pen  makes 
fantastic  circles  over  the  white  jjage — little  birds' 
nests,  witli  a  cluster  of  eggs  inside — or  draws 
foolish,  soft  profiles,  with  the  wavy  hair  twisted 
u])  Greek  fashion,  as  I  used  to  scrawl  over  my 
bedroom  walls  wiicn  I  was  a  boy.  My  thoughts 
go  "wool-gathering" — wandering  up  and  down 
.  the  world,  and  then  come  back,  and  stand  mock- 
ing and  jibing  at  me. 

How  is  it  all  to  end?  I  can  not  write.  I 
have  no  more  power  of  brain  than  the  most  ar- 


rant dolt — that  especial  dolt  whom  I  hear  whist- 
ling down  the  Crescent — 

"  cheer,  boys,  cheer,  the  world  is  all  before  us  I" 

Oh,  that  it  were !  Oh,  that  I  were  a  back- 
woodsman, with  a  tree  and  a  hatchet,  and  the 
strength  of  labor  in  these  poor,  thin,  shaking 
hands !  Oh,  that  I  had  been  born  a  plow- 
lad,  with  neither  nerves  nor  brains  ! 

My  head  is  so  hot — bursting  almost.  This 
small  room  stifles  me.  Oh,  for  one  breeze  from 
the  old  known  hills  !  But  I  should  hardly  feel  it 
now.  1  don't  feel  any  thing  much,  ^ly  thoughts 
glide  away  from  me.  1  only  want  to  lie  down 
and  go  to  sleep. 

There !  I  have  sat  twenty  minutes  by  the 
clock,  with  my  licad  on  my  hands,  doing  no- 
thing, thinking  nothing,  writing  notiiing,  not  a 
line.  The  page  is  as  blank  as  it  was  three 
hours  ago.  My  day's  work  —  twelve  golden 
hours — has  been  absolutely  nothing. 

This  can  not  last.  Am  I  getting  ill  ?  I  don't 
know.  I  never  do  get  ill.  A  good  wholesome 
fever  now — a  nice,  rattling  delirium — a  blister- 
ing and  bleeding,  out  of  w  hich  one  would  wake 
weak,  and  fresh,  and  j)eaceful  as  a  child — what 
a  blessing  that  might  be  !  But  I  could  not  af- 
ford it — illness  is  too  great  a  luxury  for  au- 
thors. 

But — as  I  said  to  poor  Austin  some  hoars 
since — what  is  to  be  done?  Something  must 
be  done,  or  my  book  will  never  be  finished. 
And,  oh,  my  enemy — oh,  my  evil  genius,  ihat 
used  to  be  the  stay  of  my  life — witli  a  sad  yearn- 
ing I  turn  over  your  leaves,  and  think  it  vould 
grieve  me,  after  all,  if  you,  the  pet  babe  of  my 
soul,  were  never  to  be  born  alive  ! 

If  any  thing  could  be  done !  I  do  not  drink ; 
I  do  not  smoke ;  I  live  a  virtuous  and  simple 
life.  True,  I  never  was  very  strong,  but  then 
1  have  no  disease ;  and  if  I  had,  is  not  my  soul 
independent  of  my  body?  Can  not  I  compel 
my  brain  to  work — can  not  I?  for  nil  you  used 
to  argue,  my  sapient  friend,  James  Corrie,  M.D. 
And  his  known  handwriting,  looking  me  in  the 
face  to-day,  brings  back  many  a  sage,  ])ractical 
warning,  disregarded  when  I  was  in  health  and 
vigor,  mentally  and  i)hysically — when  it  seemed 
to  me  tiiat  all  authors'  comjdaiuings  were  mere 
affectations,  vajjors,  laziness.  I  know  better 
now.  Forgive  me,  my  hapless  brethren,  1  am 
as  wretched  as  any  one  of  ye  all. 

Can  any  thing  cure  me  ? — any  medicine  for 
a  mind  diseased?  James  Corrie,  what  sayest 
thou  ? 

"For  any  disorder  of  the  brain — any  failure  of  the 
mental  powers — for  each  ami  all  of  these  stranfiji'  lornis 
in  which  the  body  will  assuredly,  in  lime,  taku  her  re- 
venge upon  those  who  have  given  up  every  thing  to  in- 
tellectual pursuits,  and  neglected  the  common  law  of  na- 
ture— that  mind  and  body  should  work  together,  an<l  not 
apart  — 1  know  nothing  so  salutary  as  going  back  to  a  stato 
of  nature,  and  trying  tlie  water  cure.' 

I  sat  pondering  till  midnight.  It  was  a  des- 
perate chance,  for  each  day  was  to  mo  worth- so 
much  gold.  Yet  what  mattered  that  ?  if  each 
day  were  to  be  like  this  day,  I  sliould  go  insane 
by  Christmas. 


THE  WATER  CURE. 


75 


'  At  nine  a.m.,  next  morning,  I  stood  by  my 
cousin's  bedside,  in  his  chambers  at  the  Albany. 
He  was  fast  asleep.  His  large,  white,  sculp- 
tured profile,  with  the  black  hair  hanging  about, 
was  almost  ghastly.  I  sat  down,  and  waited 
till  he  awoke. 

"  Hollo  !  Alexander !  I  thought  you  were  a 
water-demon,  waiting  to  assist  me  into  a  bot- 
tomless bath  out  of  which  I  was  to  emerge  at 
the  South  Pole.  Well,  I'm  meditating  a  simi- 
lar plunge." 

"I  likewise." 

"I  am  going  to  try  the  water  cure." 

"So  am  I." 

"Bravo !"  cried  he,  leaping  out  of  bed.  "  I 
am  delighted  to  find  there  will  be  two  fools  in- 
stead of  one.     We'll  start  to-morrow." 

"I'm  ready." 


CHAPTER  II. 


"  Give  me  tke  whip,  Fyfe.  Who  would 
have  thought  of  finding  such  a  place,  so  near 
London  !  That's  a  very  decent  hill ;  and  that 
moorland  wind  reminds  one  of  your  own  Scot- 
land." 

"Ay,"  said  I,  gulping  it  down — drinking  it 
like  a  river  of  life. 

The  free,  keen  breeze ;  the  dashing  across 
an 'unknown  country — made  dimly  visible  by 
a  bleak,  watery  November  moon  ;  the  odd 
curves  of  the  road,  now  shut  up  by  high  rocky 
sides,  now  bordered  by  trees,  black  and  ghostly, 
thongli  still  kecjung  the  rounded  forms  of  sum- 
mer foliage — above  all,  tie  country  wildness, 
the  entire  solitude,  when,  not  two  hours  ago, 
we  had  been  in  the  heart  of  London.  That 
drive  has  left  a  vivid  impression  on  my  mind. 
It  always  seems  like  a  journey  in  ii  dream.  It 
made  a  clear  division  between  the  former  life 
and  that  which  was  at  hand. 

I  said  to  myself,  in  a  dreamy  sort  of  way,  as, 
passing  under  a  woody  hillside,  the  little  foot- 
boy  sjjrang  down  and  opened  the  lodge-gate, 
and  we  drove  in  front  of  a  lighted  hall  door, 
between  two  white  shadowy  wings  of  building 
— I  said,  vaguely,  "Old  things  are  passed 
away  ;  behold,  all  things  are  become  new." 

It  is  only  in  the  middle  of  life,  or  when  its 
burden  has  become  heavier  than  we  can  bear, 
that  one  comprehends  the  stretching  out  of  the 
spirit,  as  it  wuU  yet  stretch  out  of  the  husk  of 
the  body  into  a  fresh  existence.  It  is  not  till 
then  that  we  understand  the  feeling  which 
created  the  fabled  Lethe  of  Elysium — the  full 
deliciousncss  of  oblivion — the  thirsty  craving 
after  something  altogether  new. 

Therefore,  except  to  such,  I  can  never  ex- 
plain the  ecstacy  of  impression  which  this  place 
made  upon  me,  as  producing  that  involuntary 
cry,  "All  things  are  become  new." 

Except  its  master !  That  is,  its  real  master ; 
for  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Corrie  were  in  tlie  decline  of 
life,  and  nearly  all  the  burden  uf  the  establish- 


ment fell  upon  their  son,  their  only  child.  No, 
James  Corrie,  I  would  not  for  the  world  have 
any  thing  new  in  thee.  Change  could  not  im- 
prove thee,  nor  novelty  make  thee  more  grate- 
ful to  an  old  friend's  heart. 

If  I  were  to  describe  him  literally  as  he  stood 
to  welcome  us,  I  fear  the  eUiect  made  would  be 
but  small. 

He  was  not  a  woman's  man,  my  lady  read- 
ers !  He  had  no  smooth  blandness  or  charm- 
ing roughness — the  two  opposite  qualities  which 
make  the  fortune  of  fashionable  physicians. 
You  would  hardly  take  him  for  a  physician  at 
all.  His  well-built  figure  ;  his  large,  well-bal- 
anced head,  broad-browed,  with  a  keen  intel- 
lectual eye,  but  with  a  pleasant  humanity 
smiling  about  the  well-turned  mouth — all  indi- 
cated the  wholesome  balance  between  the  men- 
tal, moral,  and  physical  organization  which 
made  James  Corrie,  more  than  any  person  1  have 
ever  known,  give  one  the  impression  of  a  true 
man. 

Not  a  mere  poet,  or  a  visionary,  or  a  j  hilos- 
opher,  or  a  follower  of  science,  made  up  of 
learning  and  dry  bones,  or  a  man  of  the  world, 
to  whom  "  the  world"  was  Alpha  and  Omega ; 
but  a  combination  of  all  these,  which  resulted 
in  that  rare  character  which  God  meant  us 
every  one  to  be,  and  which  about  one-thou- 
sandth of  us  are — a  man. 

Dr.  James  Corrie  was  about  forty.  He  had 
married  early;  it  was  an  unhap])y  and  childless 
union.  He  had  now  been  a  widower  about  five 
years.  I  do  not  know  if  womankind  thought 
him  handsome,  but  it  was  a  very  noble  and  good 
face. 

"  I  like  him,"  said  Austin,  decisively,  when 
he  had  left  us  in  our  apartments — a  sitting- 
room  dividing  two  cheerful  bedrooms — in  each 
of  which  the  principal  feature  was  a  large  shal- 
low bath,  standing  on  end  in  a  corner,  like  a 
coffin  with  the  lid  off. 

"Tea  at  seven,  bed  at  half  past  nine,"  I 
heard  Austin  maundering  drearily  to  himself, 
as  he  brushed  his  curly  hair,  and  reattired  his 
very  handsome  person.  "How  the — .  But 
I  suppose  one  must  not  swear  here — eh,  Alick  ? 
Yoiir  Dr.  James  is  not  in  that  line." 

I  laughed  ;  and  we  went  down  stairs. 

It  was  a  large,  old-fashioned  house,  baronial- 
like,  with  long  corridors  to  pace,  and  lofty 
rooms  to  breathe  freely  in.  Something  of  the 
old  feudal  blood  in  me  always  takes  pleasure 
in  that  sort  of  house,  especially  after  London 
lodgings. 

A  dazzle  of  light,  coming  from  a  large  bright 
table,  of  which  the  prominent  ornaments  were 
two  vases  of  winter  flowers,  and  a  great  silver 
urn.  But  abundance  of  delicate  edibles,  too ; 
nothing  implying  future  starvation,  as  Austin 
indicated  by  the  faintest  wink  of  the  eye  to  me  ; 
and  then,  with  an  air  of  satisfaction,  resumed 
his  customary  gentlemanly  deportment. 

We  were  introduced  to  Mrs.  Corrie,  a  tall, 
sjiare,  elderly  lady,  wlio  sat,  "frosty  but 
kiudlv,"  at  the  heud  of  the  table  ;  bc&ide  her 


THE  WATER  CURE. 


the  old  Doctor ;  at  the  foot,  our  friend,  Dr. 
James.  There  was  also  a  Miss  Jessie  Corrie, 
a  niece,  lively  and  good-lookinjr,  though  not  so 
voung  as  she  might  have  been.  A  score  of 
heterogeneous  patients,  of  both  sexes  and  all 
ages,  in  which  the  only  homogeneity  was  a 
general  air  of  pleasantness  and  jileasure,  com- 
pleted the  circle.  Its  chief  peculiarity  seemed, 
that,  large  as  it  was,  it  had  all  the  unrestrain- 
edncss  and  coziness  of  home. 

'•  That  is  exactly  what  we  want  to  make  it — 
isn't  it,  father?"  said  Dr.  James,  when,  the 
meal  over,  the  Corrie  family,  and  we  two,  stood 
round  the  wide,  old-fashioned,  fagot-heaped 
hearth.  ''We  want  to  cure  not  only  the  body, 
but  the  mind.  To  do  our  patients  real  good, 
we  must  make  them  happy,  and  there  is  no 
hapjjiness  like  tfiat  of  home." 

"True,"  I  said,  with  a  sort  of  sigh. 

"And  have  you  not  noticed  that  one-half  of 
the  chronic  valetudinarians  we  see  are  those 
who  have  either  no  home  or  an  unhappy  one  ? 
To  such  we  try  to  give,  if  not  the  real  thing, 
at  least  a  tolerable  imitation  of  it.  And  in  so 
doing  we  double  their  chances  of  cure." 

"  I  believe  it ;"  and,  turning  into  the  cheery 
drawing-room,  we  gave  ourselves  up — Austin 
thoroughly,  1  partially — to  the  pleasure  of 
being  jilcascd. 

'"Wl-U."  said  he,  when  we  retired,  "for  a 
sick  hos]jital,  this  is  the  jollicst  place  I  ever 
knew.     How  do  you  feel  ?" 

I  could  iiardly  tell.  I  was  stupid-like,  so 
great  was  the  change  to  me,  after  months  of 
hard  work  and  almost  total  solitude  ;  besides, 
Corrie  and  I  had  been  talking  over  old  times. 
As  I  lay  dozing,  with  the  glimmer  of  the  fire 
on  the  tall,  upright,  cotfin-like  bath,  there 
seemed  to  rise  within  it  a  mild,  motionless 
figure,  beautiful,  as  a  young  man's  first  love, 
in  soft  white  dead-clothes,  with  shut  eyes,  and 
folded  hands,  and  an  inward  voice  kept  repeat- 
ing my  favorite  saying — in  its  simi)licity  one  of 
the  truest  and  most  religious  that  Shakspeare 
ever  wrote — "  'Tis  better  as  it  is !" 


CHAPTER  III. 

Wi;  began  "tlie  treatment"  next  day,  in  a 
November  morning,  by  the  light  of  a  candle. 
I  will  not  betray  tlie  horrors  of  the  prison-house. 
Of  course,  it  was  u  trial.  My  turn  over,  I  could 
hardly  lielp  laughmg  when  I  heard  afixr  off  the 
"roar  of  waters,"  and  Hardy's  smothered  howl. 
And  when  I  found  iiim  out  of  doors  tran)i)ing 
tlie  hoar  frost,  and  gazing  lugubriously  over 
tlie  dim,  bleak,  misly  hills — for  it  was  before 
sunrise — he,  who  was  usually  waked  at  eleven 
A.M.,  to  find  a  valet,  silken  dressing-gown, 
coff 'C,  hot  rolls,  etc.,  etc.,  I  could  not  hide  an 
uncontrollable  lit  of  mirth. 

He  took  it  good-humoredly  ;  he  was  a  capital 
fellow  ;  but  he  shook  his  head  when  I  ])roposcd 
tt)  climii  the  hillside — the  lo\ely  hillside-,  with 


its  carpet  of  fallen  leaves,  wliich  left  still  foliage 
enougli  to  dress  the  trees,  like  Jacob's  youngest 
darling,  in  a  robe  of  many  colors,  yellow,  brown, 
red,  dark-green — I  never  beheld  more  glorious 
hues.  Sick  and  weak  as  I  felt,  they  stirred  my 
I  soul  to  something  of  its  old  passion  for  beauty. 

"Very  well:  and  then  I  must  go  up  the  hill 
alone.  It  is  thirteen  years  since  1  saw  the 
j  country  in  November ;  it  is  fifteen  years  since  I 
watched  the  sun  rise." 

So  on  I  trudged.  I  was  free  !  free !  I  had 
not  to  walk  as  I  did  in  weary  London,  that  the 
mere  motion  might  stir  up  some  new  thoughts 
in  my  sluggish  brains.  Thoughts,  not  for  the 
mere  pleasure  of  thinking,  but  that  each  might 
be  woven  out  for  use  and  coined  into  gold. 

My  demon,  with  its  two  hundred  white, 
blank  faces,  was  fifty  miles  away. 

I  did  not  see  the  sun  rise.  Who  ever  did 
when  he  climbed  for  it  ?  But  I  found  a  sea  of 
misty  moor,  sweejjing  in  wave  on  wave  of  brown 
heather — bow  jturple  it  must  once  have  been ! 
— over  which  the  wind  blew  in  my  face,  as  it 
used  to  blow  over  the  hills  at  Ijome. 

I  met  it — I  who  two  days  since  had  cowered 
before  the  slightest  drauj^ht.  My  throat  choked, 
my  eyes  burned.  I  walked  rapidly  on,  howling 
out  at  the  top  of  my  voice  fragments  out  of 
Victor  Hugo's  song,  "Le  Fou  de  Tolede." 

"  Gasliljclza,  rh<)mmc  a  la  carabine 
Cliantait  ainsi : 
Qucliiu'uii  a-t-il  connu  Donna  Sabine? 
Quflqu'un  d'ici? 

Danscz,  chantez,  villageois,  la  nuit  gagne 

Lc  mont  Falu: 
Le  vent  qui  vicnt  ii  travers  la  montagne 

Me  rendra  fou,  oui,  me  rendra  fou  I 

Dansez,  chantez,  villageois,  la  nuit  tombcl 

Sabine  un  jour 
A  tout  donnee,  sa  bcaut<5  de  colombe, 

£t  son  amour, 

Pour  I'anneau  d'or  du  Comtc  de  Saldagne, 

Pour  un  bijou — 
Le  vent  qui  vient  h  travers  la  montagno 

M'a  rendu  fou,  oui,  m"a  rendu  fou." 

Breakfast  early ;  rosy  looks  ;  cheerful  greet- 
ings ;  every  body  seeming  to  take  a  kindly  in- 
terest in  one  another;  the  CoiTie  family  taking 
an  interest  in  each  and  all ;  the  wholesome 
give-and-take  system  of  life's  small  charities 
going  on  around,  so  that,  jicrforce,  strangers 
joined  in  the  ])leasant  trafiic. 

These  were  my  first  daylight  impressions  of 
Ilighwood.  Austin's  seemed  the  same.  He 
was  busily  engaged  in  doing  the  agreeable  to 
the  bright-eyed  Jessie  Corrie  and  three  other 
ladies  ;  his  public  devotion  to  the  sex  being  very 
polytheistic  in  its  tendencies. 

I  sat  aloof  and  made  j)rufessional  "studies." 

"Are  these  all  the  patients  now  with  you, 
Corrie  ?" 

"All  but  one." 

Here  I  saw  ]SIiss  Jessie,  filling  a  small  tray 
with  comestibles,  fake  a  chrysanthemum  from 
the  centre  vase,  and  lay  it  by  the  toast. 

"  KUice  likes  white  chrysantheniunis." 

"is  Eilice  your  sister,  Miss  Corrie?" 


THE  WATER  CURE. 


77 


"I  have  none." 

"Your  cousin,  then?" 

"  No,"  half  laughing,  half  blushing ;  so  I  con- 
cluded it  was  a  man's  name,  and  owned  by  the 
invisible  patient  in  whose  floral  tastes  the  lady 
took  an  interest. 

After  breakfast,  the  dining-room  was  left  de- 
serted ;  every  body  had  something  to  do  or  suf- 
fer; we  nothing.     Stay — nothing,  did  I  say? 

Enter  John  the  bath-man. 

"Gentlemen,  will  you  please  to  be  ready  for 
me  at  twelve,  and  half  past?" 

"There's  something  to  suffer,  at  least,"  said 
I,  as  Austin  pulled  a  long  face.  Then  we  set- 
tled, he  into  languid,  I  into  restless  dreariness. 

"I  shall  go  and  smoke,  Fyfe." 

''And  I  shall  take  to  my  writing." 

"I'll  sit  with  you ;  come  along." 

I  had  not  meant  that,  being  of  those  owl-of- 
the-desert  authors  who  can  best  ply  their  trade 
alone.  But  there  was  no  help  for  it.  Despite 
my  resolutions,  and  the  maynmn  opus  left  be- 
hind, a  n)iseral)le  restlessness  drove  me  to  com- 
mence some  small  operetto,  so  as  anyhow  to 
steal  a  march  upon  my  enemy,  Time. 

I  was  cutting  folios  preparatively,  and  in- 
wardly execrating  the  unwelcome  cominmy  of 
my  cousin,  who  pufied  gloomily  over  the  fire, 
when  ill  walked  James  Corrie. 

"Welcome,  doctor;  take  a  cigar?" 

"Against  Highwood  rules,  my  good  sir," 
said  Corrie,  pleasantly. 

"  Indeed  ;  but  I  never  kept  to  a  rule  in  my 
life.  Quite  impossible ;  couldn't  give  up  my 
cigar." 

"So  thought  I  once.  Nor  my  glass  of  ale. 
Nor  my  brandy-and-water  at  supper-time." 

"Yet  you  did.     What  cured  you ?" 

"Necessity  first.  I  became  a  struggling 
man.  I  had  real  wants  enough ;  I  could  not 
afford  an  artificial  one.  Now  cigars  cost  me, 
besides  a  hearty  dyspepsia,  thirty  pounds  a  year  ; 
and  thirty  pounds  a  year  will  keep  one  man,  or 
two  children  from  starving.  It  seemed  a  pity, 
in  this  over-populated  country,  that  I  should  be 
slowly  killing  myself  with  what  would  save  two 
other  human  beings  alive." 

Austin  dropped  his  weed,  and  paused  a  little 
ere  he  lit  another. 

"And  your  strong  drinks?" 

"Once  in  my  life,  Fyfe,  I  knew  what  it  was 
to  want  water." 

"When?"  asked  Austin,  lazily,  still  irreso- 
lutely poising  his  unlit  Havana. 

"  Four  years  ago,  on  the  Atlantic,  in  an  open 
boat,  for  five  days." 

"  How  many  of  you?" 

"  Six  men  and  one  woman,  all  dying  of  thirst. 
I  have  never  touched  any  thing  but  water  since." 

The  doctor  became  silent.  Austin  looked  at 
him  with  a  dawning  interest.  The  second  cigar 
still  remained  in  its  case. 

"  Come,  Mr.  Hardy,  I  am  sure,  since  you 
have  put  yourself  under  my  care,  you  will  allow 
rae  to  confiscate  these  contraband  articles.  I 
belong  to  the  ijrevcntive  service,  you  know." 


"But,  doctor,  how  am  I  to  drag  through  the 
day  without  my  cigar?" 

"Leave  that  to  me  and  mother  Nature,  or, 
as  our  friend  here  would  poetically  say,  the  god- 
dess Undine.  By-the-by,  Fyfe,  what  is  this  I 
see?     MS.?" 

"Only  an  article  I  want  to  finish  in  the  in- 
tervals of  my  courting  this  said  goddess  of 
yours." 

"Can't  be,  my  friend;  she  will  not  take  a 
divided  heart.  In  her  name  I  must  seize  all 
this.  Best  to  be  '  off  with  the  auld  love  before 
you  are  on  wi'  the  new.' " 

"  If  Hardy  will  set  the  example.  Come,  old 
fellow,  we  have  only  to  fancy  ourselves  at  school 
again,  with  James  Corrie  instead  of  Birch  for 
our  Tyrannus.     Let's  submit." 

"  I  know  it  will  be  the  death  of  me,"  groaned 
Austin.  But  he  met  the  doctor's  cheerful,  com- 
ical smile,  and  smiled  too.  Somehow  the  ci- 
gar-case vanished,  likewise  my  MS.,  and  I 
rather  think  the  two  great  pockets  of  Corrie's 
shooting-jacket  entombed  both. 

Making  no  more  remarks  on  the  subject,  he 
continued  talking ;  upon  common  topics,  the 
Eastern  war,  Highwood,  its  neighborhood,  and 
lastly,  its  inmates. 

"  What  odd  varieties  of  humanity  must  come 
under  your  hands,  doctor!  How  ever  do  you 
manage  to  guide,  control,  and  amalgamate  them 
all  ?" 

"By  two  simple  rules — the  law  of  truth  and 
the  law  of  kindness.  Sick  people  arc  not  un- 
like children."  Here  we  both  slightly  winced, 
but  the  doctor  took  no  notice.  "  Have  we  not 
high  authority  for  trying  to  become  'as  little 
children  ?'  That,  it  seems  to  me,  is  the  prin- 
ciple of  the  water  cure  ;  that  is  how  I  strive  to 
carry  it  out." 

"You  certainly  succeed.  I  have  rarely  be- 
held more  cheerful  and  happy  faces.  It  is  quite 
a  treat  to  look  round  at  meal  times.  We  have 
seen  all  the  patients,  1  think  you  said?" 

"  Except  the  one  I  mentioned." 

"Who  was  that?" 

"MissElliceKeir." 

"  I  have  heard  about  her,"  said  Austin,  lan- 
guidly. "Something  in  your  line,  Fyfe;  the 
high,  heroic  dodge.  For  my  part,  I  don't  fancy 
your  middle-aged,  strong-minded,  self-devoted 
females." 

"Miss  Keir  would  be  as  much  surprised  as 
any  one  of  her  friends  to  hear  herself  put  under 
that  category.  Indeed,  Mr.  Hardy,  you  quite 
mistake,"  said  the  doctor,  quietly. 

"What  is  she  then?" 

"  She  has  been,  and  still  is,  a  great  suf- 
ferer." 

Something  extra-professional  and  dignified 
in  Corrie  suppressed  my  cousin.  Besides,  he 
was  too  kind-hearted  to  make  game  of  any 
"great  sufferer." 

"But  when  our  medico  was  gone,  I  scrupled 
not  to  question  what  Austin  had  heard  about 
the  'high,  heroic  dodge.'" 

"It  might  come  in,  you  know.     Any  scrap 


78 


THE  WATER  CURE. 


of  an  idea  is  valuable  to  such  addled  trains  as 
mine.     I  might  put  her  into  my  next  book." 

"Do  you  put  people  in  your  books?"  said 
Austin,  with  an  open  mouth  of  slight  alarm. 

"Never,  my  good  fellow.  That  is  never  in 
toto,  never  to  their  injury,  and  never  when  I 
tliink  they  would  dislike  it.  I  only  make  studies 
of  'bits,'  heads  and  feet,  noses  and  eyes,  as  a 
painter  would.  I  wouldn't  '  show  up'  any  body. 
It's  mean.  But,"  for  I  saw  I  was  talking  miles 
over  Austin's  head,  "  what  of  Ellice  Keir?" 

"  She  is  an  American." 

"Stop!  a  Yankee?  Then  I  don't  wish  to 
hear  anotlicr  word." 


CHAPTER  IV. 

No,  it  was  useless  trying  to  get  up  an  in- 
terest in  any  body  or  any  thing.  Chronic  ill- 
healrh  of  mind,  or  body,  or  both,  is  not  cured 
in  a  day. 

True,  the  charm  of  change  lasted  for  some 
cight-and-furty  hours  or  so,  and  I  began  greatly 
to  enjoy  the  morning  bath,  tlie  moorland  walk 
to  meet  the  sun,  the  cheery  breakfast,  where 
food  tasted  well,  and  one  was  not  afraid  to  eat ; 
where  conversation  was  pleasant,  and  one  did 
not  tremble  to  use  one's  brains,  nor  to  waste  in 
mere  talk  the  thoughts  which  were  one's  stock 
in  trade,  valuable  as  bullion  gold. 

But  as  the  day  crept  on  all  this  brightness 
faded,  and  life  becaras  as  dull  and  pale  as  it  was 
every  where  to  me. 

And  still  in  solitary  walks,  amidst  the  soft 
droppings  or  wild  whirlings  of  dead  leaves,  and 
the  rustle  of  the  dying  fern ;  in  the  still  deeper 
solitude  of  parlor  circles,  merry  and  loud,  I 
found  myself  moodily  and  cynically  comment- 
ing witii  tiie  preacher,  "  Vanity,  vanity,  all  is 
vanity."  And  out  of  the  intolerable  weight, 
the  leaden-folded  cloak,  wliich  seemed  to  wrap 
me  round,  or  else  to  hang  like  a  pall  between 
me  and  all  creation — sometimes,  a  twitter  of 
a  liinl,  or  sound  of  moorland  wind,  or  hand- 
breadth  of  rosy,  winter  sunset  lighting  u])  tiic 
dull  sky,  I  used  to  stretch  out  my  hands,  long- 
ing to  sob  out  like  a  child,  yet  able  only  to  sigii, 
"  Oil,  for  the  dreams  of  my  youth  !" 

For  Austin,  he  succeeded  better.  His  sou! 
did  not  trouble  him  much,  or  the  dreams  of  iiis 
youth  either.  His  fine  animal  nature  responded 
to  tiiis  uncorrujjt  animal  existence.  He  grew 
rapidly  better,  and  lived  apparently  a  very  jolly 
life,  though  at  intervals  still  complaining  of  its 
being  so  "  slow." 


CHAPTER  V. 


I  SAT  by  the  dining-room  fire,  alone,  for  it 
Was  the  forenoon.  Let  me  draw  the  jncture  of 
that  day. 

A  gloomy  day.     True  November ;  damp  and 


raw.  Tlic  terrace  and  the  lawn  was  strewed 
witii  dead  leaves ;  and  more  kept  falling,  flut- 
tering down  one  by  one,  like  shot  birds.  The 
only  bit  of  warm  color  the  eye  could  seiie  on 
was  a  tall  cedar,  between  whose  branches  shone 
a  beech-tree  beyond,  making  alternate  lines  of 
dark-red  and  dark-green.  Every  day  at  break- 
fast I  used  to  look  at  it,  often  thinking,  childish 
fashion,  that  if  I  had  to  choose  a  vegetable  ex- 
istence I  should  like  to  be  a  beech,  with  its 
ever-moving  leaves,  so  vocal  in  their  prime,  so 
rich  in  hue,  to  the  very  minute  that  they  fall. 

Maundering  thus,  thus  "mooning"  up  and 
down  the  lone  room,  my  hands  in  my  pockets, 
thinking  how  long  it  was  since  I  had  been  a 
child — wondering  whether  in  the  next  form  of 
existence  I  should  be  a  child  again. 

Hark  !  a  harmonium  !  I  did  not  know  there 
was  one  in  the  house.  In  the  next  room,  prob- 
ably.     Somebody  playing  it  well,  too. 

Now,  I  do  not  care  for  music  in  general — not 
the  music  one  gets  "in  society."  It  is  too 
flimsy  for  me.  The  love-songs  sicken  me  ;  the 
sad,  ))laintivc  songs,  badly  sung,  are  atrocious ; 
well  sung,  they  tear  one's  heart;  and  at  thirty, 
one  begins  to  find  that  a  very  unnecessary  piece 
of  laceration. 

"  What  is  life,  tliat  we  should  moan — 
AVliy  malvc  so  mucli  ado?" 

In  Heaven's  name,  troll  a  merry  stave  and 
liave  done  with  it.  As  for  piano-forte  playing, 
I  had  rather  hear  my  aunt's  kitten  run  over  the 
keys— at  least,  almost  always. 

But  I  like  an  organ  ;  an  1,  second  best,  a 
harmonium.  I  liked  this  one.  Corrie  found 
me  pacing  uj)  and  down,  or  listening,  rapt  in  a 
state  bordering  on  sublimest  satisfaction. 

"What  a  lovely  tone — calm,  liquid,  grand! 
Dreamy,  too — like  the  dreams  of  one's  youth, 
with  all  the  passion  and  pain  burned  out  of 
them.  How  exquisitely  smooth  and  delicate 
the  touch  !  and  it  isn't  easy,  for  I  have  tried — 
listen!" 

"Yes — she  pl.^ys  very  well." 

"Who  is  it,  doctor?" 

"Miss  Keir." 

"  Miss  Keir  !  She  with  her  Yankee  fingers 
and  Yankee  soul !" 

"  My  good  friend,  you  mistake  ;  even  if  Yan- 
kee were  the  terrible  adjective  you  make  it, 
wiiicli  I  beg  i(!ave  to  deny,  having  myself  a  great 
respect  for  Brotiicr  Jonathan.  But  Miss  Keir  is 
a  Canadian.  She  was  born  at  Montreal.  Come, 
I  will  introduce  you." 

We  entered— a  lady  rose  from  the  instrument ; 
a  very  little  lady,  almost  elfishly  small ;  hands 
and  feet  so  tiny,  you  would  have  crushed  them 
with  a  touch.  Dressed  in  black,  of  some  soft 
material  that  did  not  rustle,  but  caused  her  to 
move  softly  nnd  airily,  without  a  sound.  She 
was  neither  young  nor  handsome  in  tiie  least ; 
but — and  that  "but"  contradicts  both  asscrtioni 
— slie  liad  very  dark  (Canadian  eyes. 

I  say  Canadian,  because  I  have  only  seen 
tlicm  in  Caiia(li:Mis  by  birtii  or  descent.  Tiicy 
arc  neither  Ivistern  nor  Southern,  neither  fiery 


THE  WATER  CURE. 


70 


nor  voluptuous ;  but  large,  soft,  calm,  swim- 
ming and  trembling  in  a  tender  passionateness, 
or  breaking  at  times  into  a  flash  of  the  wild  In- 
dian blood — worth  all  your  placid,  pale-colored 
English  eyes. 

"Mr.  Fyfe — Miss  Keir.  He  is  a  very  old 
friend  of  mine." 

Miss  Keir  offered  her  hand,  her  pale  little 
hand,  soft  as  a  bit  of  snow,  only  it  was  so 
warm. 

Now,  that  is  one  of  my  crotchets — the  Jeel  of 
a  hand.  Some  it  is  martyrdom  to  me  to  touch. 
I  hate  your  tishy,  your  skinny,  your  dumpling, 
your  flal)by  hands — a  hand  that  is  afraid — a  hand 
that  clutches.  I  like  a  woman  who  comes  and 
lays  iier  soft,  pure  palm  in  mine,  knowing  I  am 
a  man  r.nd  a  gentleman,  that  I  prize  the  little 
passing  angel  and  will  entertain  it  honorably 
and  well. 

Another  crotchet  I  have — the  tone,  /.  c, — 
timbre  of  it  voice.  Venus  herself  would  be  in- 
tolerable to  me  if  she  had  the  A-oice  of  some 
women  I  have  known.  A  voice  is  the  test  of 
character — you  can  detect  at  once  the  true  ring 
in  it,  or  the  false  ;  of  temper — however  educa- 
tion and  the  decorums  of  society  may  soften  it 
down — in  critical  moments,  out  it  comes.  I 
tliink  I  never  yet  knew  a  thoroughly  lovable 
woman  who  had  an  ugly  voice. 

Miss  Keir's  voice  was  beautiful.  Among  other 
Avomen  it  sounded  like  a  thrush's  note  among  a 
congregation  of  sparrows — as  rare,  too.  Yet  her 
manner  and  looks  were  so  expressive,  so  spir- 
ituelle — nay,  rather  let  me  use  the  English  word 
spiritual,  for  that  more  truly  indicates  the  way 
in  whicli  her  soul  seemed  to  be  shining  through 
and  glorifying  her  little  frail  body — that  she  re- 
quired language  less  than  most  women. 

We  had  all  three  a  very  long  conversation. 
We  dashed  at  once  in  median  res — tried  or.r 
several  hands  at  solving  some  of  the  great  world- 
questions  of  our  day — some  of  the  greatest 
problems  of  the  universe.  We  grew  earnest, 
excited — that  is,  I  did — then  calm.  She  calmed 
me.  AVhat  she  said  I  know  not.  I  can  not  tell 
if  she  explained  any  thing,  because  the  most 
formidable  of  our  spiritual,  like  our  physical 
mysteries,  are  utterly  incapable  of  explanation  ; 
but  she  calmed  me  down — like  as  a  man  in  great 
mental  anguish  is  quieted  bj'  being  suddenly 
brought  out  into  the  open  daylight,  the  sum- 
mer air. 

I  have  great  faith  in  instinctive  attraction  and 
repulsion.  I  believe  there  are  people — I  am  one 
— who  know  at  first  meeting  whom  they  will 
love  and  whom  they  will  hate,  who  will  do 
them  harm,  and  who  good.  I  believe  this  sen- 
sation is  plaee|l  in  them  for  warning  and  guid- 
ance. I  myself  have  never  run  counter  to  it, 
except  to  my  after  peril. 

It  was  blindly  obeying  this  attraction,  when, 
on  leaving,  I  requested  permission  sometimes  to 
join  the  Corries  in  Miss  Keir's  apartment. 

She  looked  at  the  doctor ;  he  answered,  smil- 
ing— "You  are  so  much  better  now,  that  you 
may  safely  be  allowed  a  little  society — cspecial- 


]y  tliat  of  so  celebiatcd  a  literary  character  as 
my  friend  Mr.  Eyfe." 

Literature  !  faugh !  I  had  forgotten  the  very 
word. 

"Why  did  you  tell  her  I  was  an  author?"  I 
said,  as  we  turned  out  of  doors ;  Corrie  remorse- 
lessly exacting  the  walk  before  the  noonday 
bath.  "Why  could  you  not  let  me  stand  for 
once  upon  my  own  footing?  let  her  judge  me 
not  by  what  I  do,  but  what  I  am.  Yet"— and 
a  bitter  conviction  of  what  a  contemptible  speci- 
men of  manhood  I  had  sunk  to,  forced  itself 
upon  my  mind— "Yet  a  hard  judgment  that 
might  have  been." 

"  Not  from  her.  She  knows  that  some  char- 
acters, sorely  tried,  must  be  judged,  not  solely 
from  what  they  are,  but  from  what  they  aspire 
to  be — and  one  day  may  be.  Why  should  I 
have  kept  incofj.  your  best  self — your  books? 
She  has  read  them  all." 

"Has  she?  I  am  sorry.  No — glad.  For 
after  all,  with  all  my  shams,  she  will  find  the 
real  Alexander  Fyfe  by  snatches  there.  But 
enough  of  myself.     I  want  to  talk  about  her." 

"You  seem  greatly  pleased  witli  her.  Yet 
few  take  to  her  at  once,  she  is  so  very  quiet." 

"But  her  quietness  gives  one  a  sense  of  rest, 
and  her  soft  way  of  moving  throws  a  harmony 
over  the  room.  She  is  not  tmlike  the  instrument 
she  plays.  You  can  not  fancy  her  attuned  to 
the  drawing-room  ditties  and  ball-room  jigs  of 
life — you  can  not  conceive  of  her  either  beauti- 
ful or  young." 

The  doctor  silently  smiled. 

"I  mean,  there  is  in  her  that  which  tran- 
scends both  youth  and  beauty — a  cheerful  sa- 
credness — a  wholesome  calm.  She  seems  to 
do  me  good.  I  should  like  to  know  more  of 
her." 

"That  is  very  easy,  if  her  health  keeps  im- 
l)roving." 

"Has  she  been  long  an  invalid?" 

"Four  years." 

"  How  did  you  meet  her?" 

"Literally,  at  the  gates  of  death.  In  the 
boat  I  told  you  of,  after  our  ship  went  down — " 

"Was  she  that  one  woman  .saved?" 

"  She  was.  She  had  a  brother  and  sister 
with  her,  bringing  them  to  Europe.  I  got 
them  into  the  boat.  For  six  days  she  was  the 
strength  of  us  all.  Then  the  little  sister  died 
on  her  lap.     The  brother  survived." 

James  Corrie  cleared  his  throat ;  we  walked 
on  a  few  yards — 

"  Such  a  quiet  creature — who  would  have  be- 
lieved it  of  her?" 

"  Nobody  does,  and  nobody  need  ;  such  deeds 
arc  not  done  for  the  world,  and  she  has  been 
quite  as  heroic — if  you  will  use  the  word — in 
her  illness  since,  as  at  the  time  of  the  ship- 
wreck." 

"How  is  .she  affected?" 

"With  almost  constant  neuralgic  and  rheu- 
matic ]uuus ;  it  is  only  witliin  the  last  few 
months  that  she  has  been  able  to  walk — or  even 
to  stand." 


80 


THE  WATER  CURE. 


"And  the  brother?" 

"He  is  walking  the  hospitals  in  Edinburjih. 
She  struggled  on  with  him  for  six  months  till 
she  fell  ill — fortunately  in  my  mother's  house. 
She  has  never  quite  recovered." 

"Do  you  think  she  ever  will  recover?" 

"Certainly.  That  is— if  it  be  the  will  of 
God.  Now,  Fyfe,  your  hour  is  come — to  the 
'  dripping-sheet' — away !" 

I  left  him;  aid  he  walked  rapidly  up  the 
liLll. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


*'  Small — plain — and  not  young !  Very  at- 
tractive descrijition,  truly.  I'lit  the  jiatients 
here  seem  all  middle-aged.  Wliat  witli  haths 
and  walks  to  cut  up  the  day,  and  your  friend 
Corrie  to  look  after  one,  what  with  his  awfully 
honest,  righteous  eyes,  one  can't  get  the  least 
bit  of  harmless  amusement." 

"  Except  with  Miss  Jessie.  You  flirt  enough 
with  her." 

"Tut  that  verb  in  the  passive  voice — do,  my 
good  fellow.  I  merely  resjjond.  What  a  wild 
devil  it  is — just  like  pepi)ci*  and  mustard  — 
French  mustard.  It's  tlie  only  bit  of  s])ice  left 
in  your  terribly  wliolesome  hydrojiathic  diet. 
I  might  amuse  myself  really  with  it  if  it  were 
only  young." 

"  Le  besoin  de  s'amitser,  seems  the  only  possi- 
ble element  in  your  affairs  of  this  sort." 

"Exactly  so." 

And  he  sauntered  back  into  the  drawing- 
room,  where,  our  aquatic  duties  all  done,  there 
was  usually  a  most  merry  circle  till  bedtime — 
into  wliich  circle  my  friend  Hardy  had  dropped 
like  a  god-send,  and  even  by  his  third  ni^ht 
made  himself  acceptable  to  every  body  there, 
and  especially  to  Miss  Jessie  Corrie. 

Yet  I  had  no  qualms  on  her  account ;  if,  in- 
deed, I  could  have  felt  enough  interest  in  life  to 
suffer  qualms  about  any  thing.  The  lady  was 
— like  Isopel,  in  Borrow's  "Lavcngro"  (you  sec, 
unlike  many  authors,  I  do  read  other  books  be- 
sides my  own) — "large  and  fierce,  and  able  to 
take  her  own  part."  I  did  not  think  she  had  a 
heart;  anyhow,  it  did  not  matter  it's  being 
broken  —  most  people's  are,  else  where  would 
all  the  poems  and  novels  come  from  ? 

"As  you  will,  my  good  friends,"  thought  I, 
watching  them  lounging,  flirting,  and  hnighing. 
"It's  a  case  of  diamond  cut  diamond.  .Skim 
away  over  life's  shallows  in  your  painted  jolly- 
boats.  You'll  swamp  no  one — not  even  each 
other;  or,  if  you  did,  it's  no  business  of  mine." 

But  just  at  that  minute  I  paused ;  I  caught 
a  tone  of  the  harnjonium  down  stairs. 

"Now,"  thinks  I  to  myself,  "I  wonder  what 
those  eyes  down  below  would  say  if  they  were 
looking  on  instead  of  mine.  Would  they  have 
my  cynicism — my  contemptuous  laisscz-Jaire  ? 
But,  Thysician,  heal  thyself:'  How  ran  I  1)C 
bold  enough  to  jmll  the  mote  out  of  another's 


eye,  when  I  am  still  blinded  by  the  beam  in  my 
own  ?  Blinder  than  ever — or  else  coming  into 
the  light  makes  me  feel  it  more — since  morn- 
ing." 

Our  fourth  day  at  Highwood — Sunday  ;  Aus- 
tin escorted  a  carriage  full  of  ladies  to  church ; 
he  thought  it  more  "respectable."     For  me — 

Oh,  thou  one  Father  of  the  universe  !  one 
infinite  and  unapproachable  Wisdom  !  one  all- 
satisfying  and  all-perfect  Love!  when  wilt  Thou 
visit  me?  when  wilt  Thou  enlighten  me?  when 
wilt  Thou  comfort  me?  I  stand  under  the  pine- 
wood  oia  the  hill-top,  where  the  air  is  so  rare, 
and  the  wind  so  wild,  it  seems  nearer  to  Thee. 
1  long  to  die  and  learn  Thy  mysteries — to  die 
and  be  filled  with  Thy  love.  My  soul  cries  out 
unto  Thee  with  an  exceeding  great  and  bitter 
cry,  which  is  often  the  only  evidence  it  has  of 
its  own  existence.  I  do  not  believe  in  myself 
at  all,  my  worthless,  aimless,  broken-spirited, 
miserable  self;  ))ut  I  believe  in  Thee. 

"The  fool  hath  said  in  his  heart.  There  is  no 
God."  But  only  the  fool,  or,  perhaps,  he  who 
pays  a  guinea  toll  to  heaven  on  a  silver  charity- 
plate,  or  keeps  a  bishop  to  pray  for  him.  I  pr.> 
fer  the  hill-iop  and  Parson  Breeze. 

Descending  the  hill  I  met  Corrie,  antl  went 
in  with  him  to  speak  to  Miss  Keir.  He  told 
her  what  I  bad  been  saying. 

She  pointed  to  a  line  she  had  been  setting 
as  a  copy  for  the  lodge-keeper's  lame  daughter, 
whom  she  usually  taught  to  write  of  a  Sunday: 

"  In  every  place  he  that  lovetlt  (!od,  and  woik- 
cth  righteousness,  is  accepted  of  Him." 

That  was  the  best  sermon  after  all.  That 
was  what  the  Divine  I'rcacher  on  the  mount 
would  have  said  to  us,  Ellicc  Keir  ! 


CHAPTER  VII. 

"Watkk-cure  !  I  think,  doctor,  your  sys- 
tem is  directed  not  only  to  the  body  but  the 
soul.     Mine  feels  cleaner  than  of  yore." 

"  Does  it  ?" 

We  were  pacing  the  terrace  walk,  Miss  Keir 
and  Miss  Jessie  watching  us  from  the  window. 
It  had  become  a  matter  of  custom  that  I  should 
always  sjjcnd  a  morriing  hour  or  two  in  her 
room.     They  were  the  best  hours  of  the  day. 

"What  a  calm,  clear  mind  hers  is,  j>uri(ied 
by  suffering,  full  of  inward  faitli !  How  she 
looks  through  all  shams  ri^ht  down  into  trulii 
— (jods  truth!  Like^ — if  the  simile  were  not  as 
hackneyed  as  Piccadilly  in  May — like  a  steady- 
eyed  astronomer  looking  down  into  a  well.  V\'a 
see  only  the  glarin^j  noon  without,  or  the  black, 
incrusted  sides.  She  sees  the  stars  at  the  bot- 
tom. She  knows  where  to  look  for  them,  be- 
cause slie  hr/iercs  thctj  are  there." 

"You  are  (juite  poetical  again." 

"  Yes,  I  think  I  could  write  my  book,  if  you 
would  let  me." 

The  doetor  shook  his  head. 

"And  sometimes  I  could  almost  fancy  that 


THE  WATER  CURE. 


81 


Alexander  Fyfe's  boy-heart  was  only  buried 
with  the  old  knight's  under  that  sun-dial,  and 
that  a  trifle  of  digging  would  bring  it  to  the 
surface  again,  slightly  decayed,  perhaps,  but  a 
human  heart  still." 

"  Are  you  thinking  of  marrying  ?"  said  the 
doctor,  very  gravely. 

"  No ;  nor  of  loving,  in  that  sense.  It  isn't 
in  me.  But  simply  of  resuscitating  from  fast 
corruption  that  aforesaid  portion  of  human  anat- 
omy, which  we  autliors  trade  in  so  much  that  we 
leave  no  mateiual  for  home  use." 

"Do  speak  plainly ;  I  am  but  a  plain  man." 

"  For  the  which  thank  Heaven !  Merely, 
Corrie,  that  we  authors  are  liable,  above  most 
people,  to  the  danger  that,  while  preaching  to 
others,  ourselves  should  become  castaways.  We 
persuade  ourselves  that  to  paint  high  virtue  is 
to  exemplify  it.  We  like  to  act  leader  and 
chorus  instead  of  principal — to  talk  rather  than 
to  work.  In  brief,  we  write  when  we  ought  to 
live." 

"  Possibly.     But  what  are  you  driving  at  ?" 

"This.  Here  have  I  been  lauding  up  the 
ideal  these  thirteen  years ;  have  scribbled  folios 
on  moral  power,  heroism,  self-denial,  and  that 
sort  of  thing." 

"  You  have,  indeed  ;  your  writings  are  beau- 
tiful." 

"My  writings!  And  what  am  I?  A  self- 
cngrossed,  sickly,  miserable,  hypochondriacal 
fool." 

"My  dear  fellow!" 

"  It  is  true !  And  that  woman,  Ellice  Keir, 
who  never  wrote  aline  in  all  her  days,  she  lives 
a  poem.  Such  a  one  as  in  all  viij  days  I  will 
never  be  able  to  write." 

"Ill  tell  her  what  j'ou  say,"  answered  the 
doctor,  smiling.     "  Come  along." 

He  told  her  almost  word  for  word.  She 
looked  in  his  face,  and  blushed  up  to  the  eyes 
— a  vivid,  tremulous,  happy  blush. 

"  Mr.  Fyfe  is  quite  mistaken,  you  know." 

"I  know  he  is  mistaken  in  one  thing.  We 
need  only  judge  ourselves,  as  we  trust  we  shall 
be  judged,  according  to  our  gifts.  He  whose 
gifts  it  is  to  write  great  books,  though  himself 
far  below  his  own  ideal,  is,  when  not  false  to  it 
in  his  life,  a  means  of  ennobling  other  lives; 
and  thougli  to  my  mind  a  great  life  is  nobler 
than  any  book,  still,  to  have  written  a  great 
book  is — to  have  done  something.  Never  let 
a  rose-bush  despise  itself  because  it  is  not  an 
oak." 

"Yes,"  Miss  Keir  added,  her  eyes  turning 
from  Dr.  James  to  me,  "  it  should  rather  abide 
in  peace,  and  grow  to  the  utmost  perfection  its 
own  roses.      They  are  very  dear  and  sweet." 

She  held  out  her  hand.  It  M'as  better  to  me 
than  a  laurel  crown. 

Henceforward  1  began  truly  to  live;  the  first 
time  I  had  lived  for  years.  Up  ere  daylight, 
instead  of  that  stupor  of  body  and  soul  which 
nsed  to  last  till  near  mid-day.  Tlie  baths,  out 
of  which  one  comes  merry  as  a  child  and  strong 
as  a  Hercules.  The  walks,  clasping  nature  like 
F 


a  mistress ;  nature,  always  lovely  and  beloved, 
even  when  she  pelted  me  with  rain-storms, 
frowned  at  me  through  leaden  skies,  soaked 
me  with  her  soft,  perpetual  tears. 

I  will  not  say  what  it  was  to  be,  every  day, 
and  many  hours  in  the  day,  under  the  heavenly 
darkness  of  light — if  I  may  coin  the  paradox — 
of  the  eyes  of  Ellice  Keir. 

She  never  grew,  in  mine,  any  younger  or  any 
handsomer ;  in  truth,  I  hard^,■  thought  of  her 
physical  self  at  all.  It  was  a  pure,  abstract 
recognition  of  my  ideal  of  moral  beauty— more 
perfect  than  in  any  woman  I  have  ever  known. 

Pardon,  pardon,  O  first  love  of  ray  youth! 
Thine  eyes  are  closed — closed ! 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

"Well,  if  you  ask  me  for  my  opinion  (I  don't 
think  one  man  has  a  right  to  give  it  to  another 
man — hardly  even  one  friend  to  another  friend, 
without) — I  consider  you  are  not  acting  like  that 
most  sensible,  upright,  gentlemanly  youth  I  knew 
ten  years  ago — Austin  Hardy." 

"Pshaw  !  don't  bring  up  ten  years  ago.  Our 
virtues  wear  out  like  our  clothes.  We  can't  go 
shabby.     Best  get  another  suit." 

"But  let  it  be,  at  least,  as  decent  as  the 
former." 

"If  it  can,  i.  e.,  if  there's  any  cash  to  get  it 
with.  But  let's  talk  plain  English.  What  have 
you  to  say  ?  Do  you  think  I  shall  get  into  a 
scrape  ?" 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it.  Miss  Jessie  is  a  wise  one, 
and  a  sharp  one,  too.  She  isn't  the  least  like- 
ly to  break  her  heart  for  you.  She  only  co- 
quettes a  little." 

"Mighty  little.  Your  friend  the  doctor 
keeps  such  a  steady  look-out,  one  would  think 
he  wanted  her  for  himself.  Then  the  old  peo- 
ple ;  I  suppose  it's  their  duty  to  watch  black 
sheep  for  the  credit  of  their  establishment. 
Never  was  there  a  fellow  who  had  so  few  oppor- 
tunities of  love-making,  even  if  he  chose.  But 
I  don't  choose.     I  only  want  to  amuse  myself." 

"  That  is — you  find  yourself  in  a  world  where 
people  live,  work,  struggle  ;  and  all  you  can  do 
is  to  amuse  yourself!  Tired  of  all  other  shams, 
you  put  on  the  largest  sham  of  all — the  highest, 
strongest  feeling  a  human  being  can  have — 
love — just  '  to  amuse  yourself.' " 

"You're  civil,  Alexander." 

"I'm  honest." 

"Don't  fly  into  a  passion;  you  know  I  al- 
ways listen  to  you.  Why  did  you  not  give  me 
this  sermon  a  week  ago  ?" 

"Why,  indeed!" 

"  There's  something  changed  about  you,  my 
boy.  You  don't  talk  such  rigmarole  as  you 
used  to  do,  nor  in  such  a  savage  tone.  Also, 
you  look  quieter — not  so  nervous.  You  will 
grow  into  a  '  show  case,'  as  our  friend  Corrie 
would  say.     It  is  really  the  water-cure." 

"  Probably.     But  never  mind  me.     I'm  talk- 


82 


THE  WATER  CURE. 


ing  about  you,  and  Miss  Jessie  likewise.  Mark 
me,  Austin,  that  young  woman — " 

"  Hold  there.  Middle-aged.  Twenty-seven, 
at  least ;  else  I  might  have  thouglit  seriously 
of  her — for  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  !Slie  is  a  good 
figure,  large  and  lady-like — very  decent  reijui- 
sites  for  Mrs.  Hardy.  More  I  can't  expect. 
Well,  what  about  '  that  young  woman  ?'" 

"  Merely,  that  she  never  had  any  heart  at  all ; 
or,  if  she  had,  she  has  worn  it  on  her  sleeve,  till 
llie  daws  have  pecked  it  away." 

''Just  like  mine." 

"  I  wonder  you'll  even  condescend  to  play  at 
folly — still  worse,  at  mock  sentiment,  with  her. 
She  who  is  all  false,  from  top  to  toe,  without 
and  within." 

"Heigho!   So  am  I." 

"  You're  not,  Austin  Hardy.  You  think  it 
fine  to  sham  vice  ;  you're  too  lazy  to  struggle 
through  to  virtue  ;  but  you're  an  honest  fellow 
at  heart." 

'•  Hold  your  tongue,  Alick,"  said  he,  in  a 
gruft'  voice.  "Here  comes  the  lovely  young 
Jessie.  Welcome  !  She  is  just  in  time  to 
spread  her  petals  to  the  sunrise,  my  fair  Flower 
of  Damblanc!." 

For — and  let  me  premise  that  this  is  a  most 
original  scene  for  a  tryst,  and  quite  j)eculiar  to 
a  iiydropatliic  establishment — I  ought  to  have 
said  that  we  were  taking  our  morning  walk,  all 
things  being  yet  dusky,  in  the  cloudy  winter 
dawn.  Though  in  the  cast,  and  up  even  to  the 
zenith,  the  sky  was  catching  a  faint  rosy  tinge ; 
and  between  the  two  pinewoods  one  vivid  sul- 
phur-colored cloud  showed  that  somewhere,  far 
below  the  visible  horizon,  the  sun  was  begin- 
ning to  shine. 

I  maintain,  from  personal  experience  at 
High  wood,  that  sunrise  in  general  is  what  a 
scho(d-boy  would  call  "a  great  liuinbug" — "a 
dead  take  in."  But  still  it  has  a  peculiarity  of 
its  own,  especially  on  a  winter  morning.  The 
worthy  old  sun  seems  to  climb  up  so  doggedly 
]iertinacious,  so  patiently  strong,  though  sliorn 
of  his  beams — struggling  through  mist  and  damp 
to  smile  upon  a  poor  earth,  who  is  too  weary, 
ragged,  and  wan  to  welcome  him.  But  steadi- 
ly he  rises — like  a  high  honest  purpose  dawning 
in  the  hopeless  winter  of  a  man's  days,  when 
time  is  short  and  weather  bleak;  yet  steadily 
he  rises,  and  comes  at  last  to  daybreak — day- 
light— ay,  unto  perfect  noonday. 

1  began  to  think  sometimes  on  this  wise — as 
if  even  thougli  it  was  but  yesterday  that  I  had 
sat  and  watclied  my  sun  go  down — watclicd  sto- 
ically, with  oi>en  eyes  that  never  blenched  or 
moistened ;  yet  every  morning  at  this  hour,  it 
seemed  as  il'  it  m'KjIit  rise  to-morrow. 

And  Austin  ? 


CHAI'TEU  IX. 


"  Bless  my  life !      Is  that  your  wonderful 
Miss  Keir?     What  a  very  plain  woman!" 
It  was  her  first  appearance  in  tlie  evening 


circle,  and  I  had  ofTorcd  Hardy  to  introduce 
him.  Of  course,  receiving  this  reply,  I  im- 
mediately turned,  and  left  him  to  his  own  de- 
vices. 

A  "  plain  woman"  was  she  ?  Perhaps.  I 
could  not  tell ;  I  had  scarcely  thought  about  it. 
If  I  did  now,  it  was  only  vaguely,  thinking  of 
an  observation  once  made  on  a  lady,  a  friend 
of  mine.  Its  object  told  it  me  herself,  with  a 
simple,  grateful  pleasure,  touched  even  to  tears : 
"  He  said,  he  never  knew  whether  I  was  pretty 
or  not ;  he  only  knew  that  he  loved  me." 

And  I  loved  Ellice  Keir,  in  that  sort  of  harm- 
less way,  with  a  tender  friendship  which,  when 
both  arc  well  advanced  in  life,  so  as  to  make  it 
safe  and  free,  it  does  a  man  good  to  bestow, 
and  is  sweet  for  a  woman  to  receive.  So  I 
reasoned.     Oh  !   fool,  fool,  fool ! 

She  sat  in  tlie  fireside  arm-chair,  the  same 
little  black-stoled  figure,  the  sound  of  whose 
voice  was  seldom  heard,  yet  whose  mute  smile 
created  around  her  a  circle  of  brightness.  Sun- 
like, she  appeared  to  draw  from  the  various 
calyx  of  every  human  heart  some  perfume — 
usually  the  best  perfume  it  had. 

Gradually  nearly  all  the  party  gathered  around 
her :  and  a  few  stragglers  only  were  left  apart, 
including  Hardy  and  Miss  Corrie.  At  last  \ 
heard  him  behind  me. 

"How  glad  every  body  seems  to  have  Misa 
Keir  back  here  again  !" 

"That  is  not  wonderful." 

"There  is  a  general  seceding  to  her.  I  sup- 
pose I  must  e'en  follow  the  herd.  Come,  you 
may  introduce  me,  if  you  like." 

"  By  no  means.  How  could  you  be  expected 
to  do  the  civil  to  such  'a  very  ))lain  woman  ?'" 

"Ton  my  life,  and  so  she  is.  But  there's 
something  odd  about  her.  Those  eyes — I  felt 
them  at  the  farthest  corner  of  the  room.  They 
seem  to  be  finding  me  out..  Confess — have 
you  been  telling  her  any  of  my  misdeeds?" 

"Austin  Hardy!" 

"Well,  it  would  not  be  like  you.  Now  for 
it ;  lead  the  victim  to  the  horns  of  the  altar. 
I'm  prepared." 

But  Miss  Keir  was  already  retiring.  A  mere 
introduction  passed — no  nidrc. 

"Ah!"  said  Austin,  drawing  a  deep  breath, 
and  giving  me  a  slight  wink,  as  Miss  Jessie 
came  on  in  full  sail  up  to  the  chair  where  he 
was  lounging.  "  No  matter ;  I  shall  go  back 
to  my  old  silly  ways.  It's  easier  now  that  wo- 
man is  out  of  the  room." 

Hardy  held  out  fin-  one  evening — two — the 
beginning  of  the  lliird  ;  said  she  was  clever, 
and  he  hated  clever  women ;  quiet,  and  he 
liked  to  be  amused.  Afterward,  I  saw  him 
listening,  with  ];olitc,  abstracted  smile  to  the 
large  dose  of  "amusement"  Miss  Jessie  always 
furnished  ;  but  his  eyes  were  riveted  on  the 
fireside  circle,  now  a  brighter  circle  than  ever, 
since  Miss  Keir  was  its  centre.  No,  not  its 
centre  ;  for  her  attracti(m  in  society  was  more 
of  the  passive  kind.  She  did  not  shine  her- 
self, but  she  created  a  fnsh,  clear  atmosphere, 


THE  WATER  CURE. 


83 


in  which  every  one  else  shone  brighter  than 
before.  Finally,  Hardy  was  discovered  leaning 
behind  the  velvet  arm-cliair,  attentive  to  the 
discussion.  It  was  something  about  Northum- 
berland mines,  and  the  improvement  of  the 
miners. 

"  Miss  Keir  is  speaking  to  you,  Mr.  Hardy." 

It  was  really  droll  to  see  him  bend  forward 
with  that  eager,  pleased  face,  to  "such  a  very 
plain  woman." 

"Yes,  my  property  does  lie  among  the  min- 
ing country,  but  I  never  troubled  my  head  much 
about  it.     I  hnve  had  no  time." 

"  No  time  ?" 

"  That  is,  I  r?ar  I  have  never  had  energy 
enough  to  m.ikc  time.  I  am  a  very  lazy  fellow, 
as  Fyfe  would  toll  you." 

She  smiled  again,  and  said  something  more 
which  I  did  not  hear.     Austin  brightened  up. 

"  Ay,  my  cousin  has  always  a  good  w  ord  for 
me;  but,  indeed,  I  am  not  fit  for  any  thing 
of  the  sort.  I  couldn't  take  the  trouble.  My 
property  is  the  greatest  burden  of  my  life." 

Here  Jessie  Corrie  tittered  out  some  very 
commonjilace  remark,  to  which  he  replied  with 
one  of  his  usual  fulsome  speeches  to  women  ; 
but  still  kept  talking  to  Miss  Keir — 

"Duties  of  property  did  you  say?  Dread- 
ful word,  'duty!'  Quite  out  of  my  line.  Be- 
sides, it's  too  late  now.     With  my  ill-health — " 

Here  he  seemed  conscious  of  her  amused  look 
resting  on  his  brawny  figure  and  ruddy  face — 

"  Well,  I  fear  j'ou  and  the  doctor  must  find 
out  a  better  man  for  the  carrying  out  of  your 
philanthropic  plans.  I  have  been  too  long  given 
up  to  the  uo-nothing  system." 

Yet  he  lingered  and  listened,  gradually  with 
some  real  Interest  gleaming  through  his  elegant 
languor;  now  and  then  joining  in  the  conver- 
sation with  a  woi'd  or  two  of  the  capital  good 
sense  he  could  fur.iish  at  will,  though  he  was 
not  cursed  to  any  heavy  degree  with  that  com- 
modity called  "brains."  At  parting,  Miss  Keir 
shook  hands  with  him,  with  a  friendly  word  or 
two. 

' '  By  Jove,  Fyfe,  that  isn't  a  bad  sort  or"  wo- 
man, just  for  a  change.  I'm  rathei"  tireJ  o/ 
beauties.  One  is  obliged  to  tiiink  before  one 
speaks  to  her,  just  as  if  she  were  a  man." 

"Her  sex  is  indebted  to, you." 

"  Pshaw!  she  is  not  a  bit  of  a  woman." 

"  Altogether  a  woman,  I  think." 

"Well,  have  your  own  way." 

He  stood  long  meditating,  a  rare  fact  for 
Austin  Hardy, 

"  There  is  some  sense  in  those  schemes  of 
hers.  When  I  was  twenty-one  I  used  to  have 
grand  notions  about  improving  my  estates,  and 
living  patriarch  of  the  country  side,  after  the 
good  old  fashion.  But  all  vanished  in  smoke. 
It's  too  late  now." 

"No  good  thing  is  ever  too  late.  Did  you 
not  hear  her  saying  so  ?  She  thinks  you  might 
carry  out  many  of  the  Doctor's  sanitary  and 
educational  schemes.  She  told  me  she  wished 
you  would." 


"  Did  she  ?  But  I  have  not  the  power,  and 
it  isn't  worth  while.  Let  the  world  jog  on  as 
it  likes,  it  will  last  my  time.  However,  per- 
haps I  may  just  hear  what  she  says  on  the  sub- 
ject to-morrow." 

I  smiled  to  myself,  and  was  satisfied. 

"  By-the-by,  Alick,  I  altogether  forgot  to  bid 
good-night  to  Jessie  Corrie." 

Substitution  is  the  true  theory  of  amendment. 
Knock  a  rotten  substance  out  by  driving  a  sound 
wedge  in. 

So  thought  I,  when,  two  days  after,  I  saw 
Austin  making  himself  busy — at  least  as  busy 
as  a  man  can  well  be  who  is  going  through  the 
water  treatment — in  this  new  interest,  which 
perhaps  was  the  only  real  interest  he  was 
capable  of.  It  roused  his  best  self— that  for 
which  nature  intended  him— the  active,  up- 
right, benevolent  country  gentleman. 

He  took  to  plans,  drawings,  blue-books, 
works  on  political  economy,  and  spent  half  th« 
morning  in  that  little  parlor  I  so  loved,  with 
Dr.  James  Corrie  and  Miss  Keir. 

The  former  said  to  me,  watching  him — 

"  Here's  a  change  in  our  friend  Mr.  Hardy. 
I  farcy  he,  too,  is  participating  in  the  spiritual 
water-cure." 

"  It  appears  so." 

Nor  did  I  grudge  him  that  healing. 


CHAPTER  X. 


It  was  a  November  day — November,  yet  so 
mild,  so  sunshiny,  so  heavenly  calm,  that  but 
for  the  thinned  trees,  the  brown  heather,  the 
withered  fern,  you  would  have  thought  it 
spring. 

Her  pony's  feet  were  up  to  the  fetlock  in 
dead  beech-leaves,  making  a  soft  rustle  as  we 
climbed  the  hill  after  her.  We — that  is,  Aliss 
Corrie,  Hardy,  Dr.  James,  and  I.  The  old 
Dr.  Corrie  and  his  wife  were  a  good  way  be- 
hind. They,  too,  had  made  a  point  of  joining 
the  triumphant  procession  which  celebrated 
Miss  Keir's  return  to  the  outer  world ;  for 
every  body  loved  her — every  body  ! 

She  seemed  to  know  and  feel  it — to  sun  her- 
self in  it  almost  as  a  child  does.  For,  though 
thirty  years  old,  there  was  still  in  her  a  great 
deal  of  the  child.  Trouble  had  passed  over 
her,  ripening,  not  blasting,  and  left  her  in  the 
Indian  summer  of  her  days,  a  season  almost  as 
beautiful  as  spring.  In  tliat  golden  briglitness, 
one  of  us  at  least  lived,  morning,  noon,  and 
eve,  and  half  believed  it  was  the  return  or 
May. 

"This  day  seems  made  on  purpose  for  you, 
Miss  Keir,"  said  Austin,  as  he  struggled  up  the 
hill,  assisting  Miss  Jessie  kindly  and  courteous- 
ly (jierhaps  more  kindly  and  courteously  than 
ever  since  his  manner  had  gradually  sunk  to 
tliat  and  nothing  more).  The  lady  looked 
cross,  and  compkiined  of  damp  leaves.  In  her 
was   nothing  of  the   Indian    summer,   but  am 


84 


THE  WATER  CURE. 


affectation  of  pirlishness,  a  frantic  clinging  to  a 
lost  youth,  Avhifh  is  at  once  the  sudJest  and 
most  hateful  thing  I  know. 

"  Eight  hours  since,  when  Hardy  and  I  took 
our  morning  walk,  this  moor  was  all  white  with 
hoar-frost.  Are  you  quite  sure  you  arc  not 
cold.  Miss  Keir  ?" 

"Let  me  run  and  get  her  my  fur  cape, 
Alick.  Will  you  help  Miss  Currie  for  a  minute 
or  two?" 

"  Mr.  Hardy  is  certainly  better ;  he  has 
learned  to  run  like  any  school-boy,"  said  the 
doctor,  with  an  amused  satisfaction. 

"And  to  fetch  and  carry  like  any  spaniel," 
observed  Miss  Jessie  Con-ie,  whose  regard 
cooling  down  gave  out  a  satirical  spark  or  two 
occasionally.  "  IMarvelous  change  !  A  month 
ago,  he  thouglit  of  nobody  in  the  world  but  his 
dearly-beloved  self." 

"  lie  was  ill  then,"  I  said. 

Laugliing  at  my  sharpness,  she  bent  forward 
to  a  whisper  of  Miss  Keir's,  which  she  repeat- 
ed aloud,  with  variations,  afterward. 

"Mr.  Hardy,  Elliee  is  much  obliged.  She 
says  you  run  like  a  school-boy,  and  carry  like  a 
spaniel,  and  have  learned  at  last  to  think  of 
other  folk  in  the  house  besides  vour  beloved 
self." 

"  Did  she  say  so  ?" 

That  hurt  look  on  Austin's  hlase  visage  was 
something  new — new  as  the  odd  shyness  with 
which  he  gave  the  fur  to  me  to  wrap  her  in — 
lie,  the  erewliile  officious  squire  of  dames  I 

Elliee  turned  on  him  her  briglit,  true,  heart- 
satisfying  smile. 

"Jessie  mistakes  a  little.  I  said  tliat  Mr. 
Hardy  thinks  of  every  body  in  the  house  ex- 
cept himself." 

Austin  showed  tliat  he  could  not  only  run, 
but  blush  like .  any  school-boy  ;  so  pleasant 
seemed  her  jiraise. 

On  we  went  througli  tlie  moorland,  down  in 
the  ferny  dell  where  those  three  cedars  stood, 
huge  and  dark,  with  the  faint  sunbeams  on 
tlicir  tops,  and  damp  carthincss  at  their  feet. 

"  This  will  not  do,"  said  Dr.  James. 
"Very  unsanitary  spot.  There's  a  wholesome 
breeze  and  a  grand  view  half-way  up  Torbury 
Hill." 

So  we  ascended,  knee-deep  in  lieather,  in 
which  poor  Miss  Jessie  was  stranded.  Austin 
took  her  safely  home,  and  came  "  tearing" 
back,  his  hair  flying  all  abroad,  and  his  clothes 
catching  on  furze-bushes.  How  his  London 
friends  would  have  stared  !     I  told  him  so. 

"Never  mind.  You  arc  growing  just  as 
much  of  a  boy  yourself,  old  fellow !  I  think. 
Miss  Keir,  it  must  be  something  in  the  air  of 
Highwood  tliat  makes  one  young." 

He  might  have  .said,  only  he  never  made  one 
of  his  in-etty  spceclics  to  her,  that  she  herself 
furnished  no  exception  to  the  rule.  For,  in 
truth,  her  cheek  liad  a  girlish  rosiness  ;  a  tint 
like  the  inside  leaves  of  those  delicate,  peacli- 
colored  chrysantiiemums  she  was  so  fond  of. 
I  think — oh,  contemptibly-sentimental  tliought ! 


— I  would  like  to  have  my  grave  planted  witk 
chrysanthemums.  They  come  so  cheerful  and 
fair  in  the  winter  time,  and  they  always  remind 
me  of  Highwood  and  of  Elliee  Keir.  She  once 
said  they  looked  like  a  handful  of  happiness 
gathered  when  one  is  growing  old. 

But  we  all  eschewed  age  to-day — ay,  even 
the  doctor,  whose  general  gravity  was  such 
that  most  of  the  patients  looked  upon  him  as 
more  antiquated  and  reverend  than  his  father. 
He  threw  off  his  antiquity  now.  He  strode 
through  the  heather,  led  the  pony,  pointed  out 
the  sunset.  He  had  always  the  keenest  sense 
of  natural  beauty ;  his  large  gray  eye  softened 
and  brightened  as  it  turned  on  Elliee  Keir. 

"How  strange,  how  sad  it  must  be  to  have 
to  seek  out  God  in  nature  !  To  us  all  natura 
is  but  an  emanation  of  from  God." 

I  listened.  He  and  she  together — CIuMStiap 
man  and  Christian  woman — had  said  some 
sweet,  Christ-like  words  to  me  ere  tliis  ;  better 
still,  had  lived  before  me.  It  seemed  strange 
now  that  I  had  ever  cried  out  in  that  temporary 
insanity  of  unbelief  with  which  this  history  be- 
gins. I  stood  "clothed,  and  in  my  right  mind." 
It  will  be  imagined  the  sort  of  feeling  with  which 
I  often  looked,  as  to-day,  from  one  face  to  the 
other — what  calm,  noble,  blessed  faces  they 
were  I — especially  hers. 

Austin  did  the  same.  He  had  a  great  kind- 
ness for  tiie  doctor ;  and  as  for  Miss  Keir — 

"Do  you  know,"  he  said,  stepping  closer  to 
her  .saddle,  "  this  ])lace  is  curiously  like  Nether- 
lands. The  country-side  is  all  barren  moor, 
just  as  this,  dotted  with  tumble-down  huts, 
where  those  brutes  of  riotous  miners  live.  Ah! 
you  smile.  It  shall  not  be  so  another  year. 
Indeed,  it  shall  not,  Miss  Keir.  I'll  see  what 
I  can  do." 

"Bravo!  What  you  can  do  will  be  no  lit- 
tle, Mr.  Hardy." 

"  Thank  you,  doctor.  And  there,  behind 
just  such  a  fir-wood  as  that,  the  house  stands. 
Poor  old  Netherlands,  I  have  not  been  there 
these  ten  years.  It  is  getting  sadly  dilapidated, 
my  steward  tells  me — but  then  it's  his  interest 
to  tell  me  lies — they  all  do.  "\\'hat  were  you 
saying,  Miss  Keir?" 

He  bent  forward  to  hear  her. 

"I  never  thought  of  that,"  he  answered,  dep- 
recatingly.  Bless  me,  it  never  struck  me  my 
laziness  was  harming  any  body  but  myself;  but 
for  tiie  future,  1  promise,  and  Fyfc  knows  I 
never  break  my  promise.  Doctor,  you  may 
well  cry  '  Bravo !'  There's  a  good  star  rising 
over  poor  tdd  Netherlands.  You  must  come 
and  see  me  there." 

Then,  in  a  lower  tone, 

"  Will  you  come  too.  Miss  Keir?" 

She  hesitated,  colored  slightly,  or  I  fancied 
so ;  finally,  gave  a  smiling  assent.  Austin 
thanked  her,  and  stood  looking  toward  the  fir- 
wood,  that  lay  in  a  black  bank  under  the  sun- 
set. 

"Poor  old  Netherlands — dear  old  Nether- 
lands!" he  murmured  more  than  once,  in  the 


THE  WATER  CURE. 


85 


soft  tone  he  liacl  used  years  ago,  when  talking 
to  my  little  sister,  Mary. 

I  also  was  young  then.  Heavens !  what  it 
is  to  be  young ! 

"Oil,  my  youth — my  youth!"  cried  out  my 
heart  too,  and  seemed  to  catch  at  its  last  gleam- 
ing, even  as  each  wave  of  moor,  each  stump  of 
tree  caught  at  the  sun  as  he  was  going  down, 
with  a  wild  clutch,  as  knowing  that  tliis  glim- 
mer was  indeed  the  last — that  afterward  there 
would  be  nothing  but  gloom.  But  he  went 
down,  and  it  was  light  still. 

"This  is  the  strangest  winter  evening,"  I 
said.  "It  will  not  grow  dark.  Did  you  ever 
see  such  a  dainty,  bright  new  moon?" 

"We  must  go  home  for  all  that,"  insisted  the 
doctor,  smiling. 

"  Not  yet — just  one  minute  longer,  Miss 
Keir." 

I  put  my  arm  on  her  pony's  neck.  I  could 
not  see  her  face,  but  a  fold  or  two  of  her  gown 
— just  enough  to  feel  she  was  there.  I  fancied 
I  heard  her  sigh.  No  wonder — every  thing  was 
so  still  and  beautiful. 

For  me,  my  sigh  was  almost  a  sob.  My  soul 
was  come  into  me  again.  I  was  no  longer  a 
wretched  clod,  passionless,  brainless.  I  could 
feel,  enjoy,  create ;  I  was  again  au  author,  a 
poet — greater  yet,  I  was  a  man. 

"Oh,  thank  God,  this  is  like  my  youth! 
And  I  am  young — I  am  only  thirty-two.  I 
might  live  my  life  out  yet." 

"Live  it!"  said  the  brave,  kind  voice  of 
James  Corrie. 

"Live  it!"  said  the  silent  smile  of  EUice 
Keir. 

"I  will!" 

Though  the  vow  was  then  taken  somewhat  in 
blindness  of  what  was,  and  was  to  come,  still, 
God  be  witness,  I  shall  never  break  it  either  to 
Him — or  these. 


CHAPTER  XL 


"I've  done  it,  Alick— I  thought  I  could." 

And  Hardy,  after  a  three  days'  absence — I 
supposed  in  London — burst  into  our  sitting- 
room,  a  huge  peripatetic  snow-drift. 

"Done  what?" 

"I  forgot — you  don't  know  yet.  But  I'll 
tell  you  in  a  minute,  when  I'm  not  out  of 
breath." 

"Did  you  come  in  by  the  six  o'clock  train, 
to-night?" 

"  Surely." 

* '  Nobody  expected  you.  You  must  have  had 
to  walk  across  the  country." 

"Of  course  I  did." 

"Tell  it  not  at  the  Albany,  lest  Highwood 
should  be  inundated  with  a  flood  of  bachelors 
seeking  the  water-cure !  That  I  should  have 
lived  to  see  Austin  Hardy,  Esquire,  taking  a 
four-mile  night-walk  through  a  heavy  Christ- 
mas snow !" 


' '  Pshaw,  don't  make  game  of  a  fellow  ;  it's 
only  what  a  man  ought  to  do,  if  he's  any  thing 
like  a  man." 

He  certainly  looked  every  inch  "a  man." 
His  languid  affectations,  his  fashionable  drawl, 
were  gone.  Even  his  dress — that  Stultzian 
toilet  once  rivaling  the  Count  himself — was 
now  paid  no  more  attention  to  than  any  decent 
gentleman  is  justified  in  paying.  His  hair  friz- 
zled, guiltless  of  Macassar ;  as  for  his  oils  and 
his  perfumes,  the  water-cure  seemed  to  have 
washed  them  all  away.  Altogether  he  wa^a 
very  fine  fellow  indeed — in  the  physical  line. 
My  own  small  corporeality  shrunk  into  insig- 
nificance beside  him. 

But  I  had  been  sitting  for  two  hours  looking 
direct  into  those  eyes,  which  looked  as  steadily 
into  mine,  in  bright  and  friendly  communion — 
those  eyes  which  always  sent  a  deep  peace,  a 
quiet  rest  down  to  the  very  bottom  of  my  soul. 
No ;  I  did  not  envy  Austin  Hardy. 

"  Now,  my  good  fellow,  when  you  have  shak- 
en off"  your  snow,  sit  down  and  inform  me  of 
this  mighty  deed." 

"Oh,  it's  nothing — a  mere  nothing,"  with 
that  air  of  positive  sliyness,  w^hich  was  in  him 
so  new  and  so  comical.  "First,  is  all  well  at 
Highwood  ?" 

"Certainly.  You  surely  did  not  expect  any 
great  internal  convulsions  to  happen  here  in 
three  days?" 

"No ;  but  when  one  is  away,  you  know,  one 
fancies  things.  How  deliciously  quiet  this  place 
seems,  after  knocking  about  for  some  hundreds 
of  miles!" 

"Some  hundreds  of  miles!  Why,  where 
have  you  been?" 

"To  Edinburgh." 

"To  Edinburgh!  You  who  grumble  at  a 
fifty  miles'  journey !  In  this  snow,  too !  What 
important  business  dragged  you  there?" 

"Oh,  none.  Only  I  thought  I  ought."  (The 
amusing  novelty  of  Austin  Hardy's  doing  an  un- 
pleasant tiling  because  he  ought !)  "I  went  to 
see  young  Harry  Keir." 

I  was  very  much  astonished. 

"You  see,"  he  added,  poking  the  fire  hard, 
"I  couldn't  bear  her  sad  looks  when  the  young 
fellow  and  his  doubtful  prospects  were  men- 
tioned. He  is  a  real  fine  fellow — only  wants 
giving  a  start  in  life,  and  he'd  get  on  like  a 
house  on  fire.  Now,  last  week  a  thought  struck 
me—" 

"Will  you  kindly  leave  off"  striking  showers 
of  fir-wdod  sparks  into  my  face?" 

"I  didn't  like  telling  her  beforehand,  lest, 
if  it  failed,  she  should  be  disappointed.  She 
loves  that  lad — though,  by-the-by,  he  isn't  ex- 
actly a  lad ;  he  took  his  doctor's  degree  this 
year,  and  is  mighty  clever,  too — heigho  !  She 
is  fond  of  him  and  he  of  her.  And,  by  Jove ! 
so  he  ought  to  be." 

"But  you  have  not  yet  told  me — that  is,  if 
you  were  going  to  tell  me — " 

"Certainly,  though  there's  little  to  tell. 
Merely,  that  I  went  to  Edinburgh,  found  out 


86 


THE  WATER  CURE. 


the  young  man ;    then  hunted  up  my  friend, 

Lord  C ,  ■who  is  starting  to  Italy  with  his 

sick  son.  A  tolerable  hunt,  too — followed  him 
first  to  Yorkshire,  and  then  to  Bath.  But  it's 
all  settled  now.  Keir  is  appointed  traveling 
physician  at  £200  a  year.  Not  a  bad  notion — 
eh,  Alick?  The  young  fellow  is  so  glad — it 
quite  does  one  good  to  think  of  him." 

"Does  she  know?" 

"Of  course  not." 

"How  happy  she  will  be!" 

And  it  was  he  w  ho  had  the  power  to  give  her 
this  happiness !  For  the  first  time  in  my  life  I 
envied  Austin  Hardy. 

"When  shall  you  tell  her?" 

"I  don't  know — I — I  wish  you  would,  Fyfe. 
You  would  do  it  so  much  better  than  I." 

"No— no." 


CHAPTER  XII. 

I  WAS  present  when  she  was  told — told  in 
an  awkward,  unintelligible,  and  even  agitated 
fashion,  which  no  one  would  have  expected 
from  that  finished  gentleman,  Mr.  Austin 
Hardy. 

She  looked  from  one  to  the  other  of  us 
vaguely.      "I  don't  understand." 

Hardy  repeated  the  information — just  the  bare 
fact  of  her  brother's  appointment,  which  young 
Keir  himself  would  confirm  to-morrow. 

She  believed  at  last,  asking  pardon  for  her 
doubt.  "  But,"  with  that  rare  tear,  which 
showed  how  many  could  have,  or  had  once 
flowed  down  her  dear  face,  "Harry  and  I  are 
not  used  to  being  so  happy." 

No  more  than  this.  Nothing  in  her  of  the 
tragic  commodity  —  nothing  that  jirofcssional 
passion-mongers  like  me  could  study  a  scene 
out  of.  But  my  "studies"  had  gone  to  the 
winds  weeks  ago  I 

"And  who  has  done  me  this  kindness,  for 
•which  I  must  be  grateful  all  my  days  ?  Whom 
must  I  thank?" 

He,  generous  fellow,  had  omitted  that  trifle. 

Of  course,  I  told  her  all. 

Miss  Keir  was  very  much  affected.  She 
held  out  both  her  hands  to  him. 

"Thank  you.     God  bless  you!" 

But  Hardy  had  disappeared. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

That  night,  after  the  drawing-room  was  de- 
serted, I  sat  alone  there. 

I  leaned  my  check  against  the  velvet  arm- 
chair, which  still  seemed  to  keep  the  impress 
and  Cv-en  the  perfume  of  her  black  hair.  Long 
meditations  seized  me.  All  my  past  life  glided 
before  me  in  a  moving  ])icture — tlie  latter  lialf 
of  it  standing  still  like  a  di(jranui  under  my 
gaze.  Then  it  began  less  to  fade  than  to  change 
— new  foinis  mingling  with  the  old,  confusedly 


at  first.  Gradually  the  old  shapes  melted  out, 
without  any  sense  of  loss,  and  the  new,  the 
transcending  beautiful  and  perfect  scene  stood 
out  before  me  vivid  as  life  itself. 

I  said  in  my  heart:  "Every  man,  at  every 
great  crisis  of  his  existence,  has  a  right,  within 
reasonable  and  honorable  bounds,  to  secure  his 
own  happiness,  to  grasp  at  the  cuj>  which  he 
feels  would  be  his  soul's  strength  and  salva- 
tion. It  shall  be  so.  Therefore,  to-morrow — 
to-morrow." 

Rising,  I  paced  the  room.  My  weak  nerv- 
ousness was  gone — my  spirit  was  strung  up  to 
its  utmost  pitch.  I  was  able  to  remove  mount- 
ains. My  brain  felt  clear — my  heart  throbbed 
with  all  the  warmth  of  my  youth.  Oh !  what 
a  youth  was  mine  !  In  this  moment  it  all  came 
back.  I  could  have  written  a  great  book,  have 
lived  a  great  life ;  have  achieved  the  most  dar- 
ing ex])loit,  have  nerved  myself  to  the  most 
heroic  sacrifice. 

This  was  what  she  had  made  of  me — she, 
and  he,  James  Corrie,  whom  I  honored  with 
all  my  soul.     But— I  loved  her. 

Strange,  solemn  love — more  solemn  than  in 
any  young  man's  love — love  that  comes  in  au- 
tumn season — wild  as  autumn  blasts — delicious 
and  calm  as  autumn  sunshine.  Delicious,  not 
merely  as  itself,  but  as  the  remembrance  of  by- 
gone sjtring — clung  to  as  we  cling  to  every  soft 
October  day  that  dies,  knowing  that  afterward 
nothing  can  come,  nothing  will  come,  nothing 
ought  to  come,  but  winter  and  snows.  This 
fatal  love — I  say  fatal,  simply  implying  that  it 
came  of  fate,  which  means  of  God — was  upon 
me,  Alexander  Eyfc,  now. 

I  will  not  deny  it,  nor  murmur  at  it,  nor  blush 
for  it :  I  never  sought  it,  nor  ruslied  in  tlie  way 
of  it — it  was  sent — and  therefore  was  right  to 
come. 

Slowly,  and  rather  loth,  I  went  to  my  cham- 
ber.    In  our  parlor  I  saw  Austin  Hardy. 

He  was  sitting  over  the  fire.  I  should  have 
passed  him,  but  he  turned  round.  Such  a  face 
— such  a  wan,  haggard,  wretched  face — that  I 
stoj)ped. 

"What  have  you  been  doing,  so  late  up? 
Are  you  ill  ?" 

"No." 

"Has  any  thing  happened?  Come,  tell  mc 
— we  were  lads  together." 

He  groaned — "Oli,  that  I  were  a  lad  again  I 
Alick,  Alick,  if  you  would  helj)  me  to  begin  my 
life  afresh,  and  make  it  in  any  way  worthy  of — " 

"Of— out  with  it." 

"Of  EUice  Keir." 

I  had  at  times  suspected  this — had  even  tried 
to  grasp  at  the  ])ossibility  of  it.  Boldly  too,  as 
we  dash  at  some  horrible  doubt  that  we  know 
lies  in  wait  for  us — jiin  it  to  the  ground  and 
worry  it — with  a  sort  of  hope  that  it  will  citlier 
vanish  into  air  at  our  touch,  or  that  we  shall 
succeed  in  slaying  it,  leave  it  dead  at  our  feet, 
and  go  on  (nir  w-ay,  safe  and  free. 

But  now,  when  the  beast  met  me — when — 
l)sliaw  !   let  me  say  it  in  plain  English — when  I 


THE  WATER  CURE. 


87 


knew  that  my  cousin  loved  and  wished  to  marry 
Ellice  Keir,  it  drove  me  mad. 

All  kinds  of  insanities  whirled  through  my 
brain.  If  I  had  any  connected  impulse  at  all, 
it  was  to  fly  at  his  throat  and  strangle  him. 

But  only — God  be  my  witness  I — because  he 
dared  to  love  Iter.  Any  certainty  that  she 
loved  him,  \vould — I  feel  it  would — liave  sanc- 
tified him  in  my  eyes ;  I  could  not  have  done 
him  any  harm. 

Of  course  feelings  like  these  subside,  and  one 
smiles  at  them  afterward,  as  I  smile  now.  But 
I  would  not  like  to  live  througli  that  five  min- 
utes again. 

It  passed  in  total  silence.  I  am  thankful  to 
say  I  never  uttered  a  sound. 

Austin  at  last  raised  his  head,  and  looked 
at  me.  I  steadily  met  his  eyes.  There  was  no 
mistaking  mine. 

"My  God,  Alick!— You  too?—" 

"Precisely." 

We  stood  face  to  face,  unblenching,  for  a 
full  minute  or  more.     Then  I  said — • 

"  Strike  hands.  Fair  fight- — no  quarter — or, 
if  you  will,  let  us  both  fly,  and  the  devil  take 
the  hindmost." 

For  I  was  very  mad  indeed.  Austin,  on  the 
contrary,  was  very  quiet — nay,  meek.  We 
seemed  to  have  changed  natures. 

"  No,"  he  said,  at  length,  "Flying  is  useless; 
I  should  drop  dead  on  the  road.  I'll  take  my 
chance.  It  must  be  as  you  say — a  fair  fight, 
and  no  quarter." 

"It  shall  be." 

Again  a  long  pause. 

"What  do  you  purpose  doing?" 

"  What  do  jjou  purpose  ?" 

Neither  answered  the  other's  question.  Each 
looked  in  the  other's  face,  savagely,  and  dropped 
his  eyes  in  a  sort  of  jjity  for  the  misery  imprint- 
ed there. 

"I  wish  it  had  not  come  to  this,  Alexander. 
We,  that  should  have  been  brothers,  if  I  had 
married  little  Mary." 

That  child's  name  calmed  us.  Both,  looking 
aside,  half  extended  an  involuntarv  hand. 

"Let  us  not  be  enemies  yet.  We  do  not 
know  whether — " 

"Tell  me  honestly,  Austin,  have  you  no  be- 
lief in  her  preference — no  tangible  liope — ?" 

"Before  Heaven,  not  a  straw!" 

I  breathed  freer.  I  did  not  refuse  his  hand : 
we  had  been  friends  so  many,  many  years. 

"Fair  play,  Alick?"  said  Hardy,  almost 
piteously.  "Is  it  fair  play?  You  are  a  far 
cleverer  fellow  than  I.  You  can  talk  with  her 
and  interest  her.  Slie  likes  you — respects  you. 
Now,  I — oh,  what  a  wretched,  trifling,  brainless 
fool  I  must  appear  to  her!" 

Boor  fellow  ! — poor  open-hearted,  simple- 
minded  soul ! 

"Lad,  lad," — with  my  hand  on  his  shoulder 
as  when  we  used  to  stand  fishing  in  the  silvery 
Tyne — "do  you  think  a  woman  only  cares  for 
brains?" 

He  shook  his  head,  hopelessly.     "  I  can't  say. 


I  don't  know.  God  forgive  me" — with  a  bitter, 
remorseful  humiliation — "  till  now  I  have  hard- 
ly known  any  tiling  of  t^ood  women.  That's 
it,"  he  added,  after  a  pause — "  it  is  not  merely 
losing  her,  you  see ;  if  I  lose  her  I  shall  lose 
myself — the  better  self  she  put  into  me.  My 
only  chance  of  a  new  life  hangs  on  her.  Think 
how  she  would  help  me — think  what  a  man  she 
would  make  of  me.  If  I  married  her — Hold 
your  hands  oflf!     Are  you  mad,  Fyfe  ?" 

"I  am  afraid  so." 

She  married  I  Married ! — sitting  by  another 
man's  fireside ;  the  wife  of  another  man's 
bosom — the  mother  of  another  man's  children  ! 
Reason  could  not  take  it  in ;  imagination  beat 
it  off,  even  from  the  merest  outworks  of  the 
brain.  If  once  allowed  to  enter  the  citadel, 
there  would  have  been  a  grand  explosion — a 
conflagration  reaching  to  the  very  heavens, 
burning  down  to  such  a  heap  of  ruins  that  no 
man  could  rebuild  a  city  thereon  any  more. 

But  this  is  what  they  call  "fine"  writing. 
Better  say,  in  common  polite  phrase,  that  the 
idea  of  this  lady's  marriage — and  to  my  cousin 
— was  rather  trying  to  a  person  of  my  excitable 
temperament. 

I  believe  Austin  was  roused  from  his  own 
feelings  to  contemplate  mine.  I  have  a  vague 
recollection  of  his  startled,  shocked  look,  and 
the  extreme  gentleness  of  his  tone.  "Do  sit 
down ;  there's  a  good  fellow !  I  knew  you  didn't 
mean  me  any  harm." 

Also,  I  mind  his  watching  me  as  I  paced  the 
room — watching  with  a  disturbed,  grieved  air — 
and  muttering  to  himself — 

"Poor  lad — he  was  always  M-eakly.  His 
mother  used  to  say  a  great  misfortune  would 
kill  him  or  turn  his  brain." 

"I  hope  it  would." 

"Alick — don't  say  that."  He  tnmed  npon 
me  absolutely  brimming  eyes.  Now,  it  so  hap- 
pened that,  being  her  sister's  child,  Austin's  eyes 
were  not  unlike  my  mother's.  What  could  I  do 
but  come  and  sit  down  opposite  to- him,  and  try 
desperately  to  struggle  against  the  strongtendeii- 
cy  which  I  knew  my  mind  had — which  almost  all 
minds  similarly  constituted,  and  hard  worked, 
have  likewise — to  lose  its  balance,  and  go  rock- 
ing, rocking,  in  a  pleasant  motion  that  seems 
temijorarily  to  lull  pain,  till  it  plunges  over,  over 
— one  hair-breadth,  and  it  is  lost  in  the  abyss 
whence  Reason  is  absent  for  evermore. 

'•  That  is  right — sit  down.  I  should  be  sorry 
if  I  wronged  you,  Alexander ;  sorry  that  any 
thing  should  turn  you  against  me.  You,  the 
only  fellow  who  never  flattered  nor  quizzed  me 
— who  has  stuck  by  me  through  thick  and  thin, 
for  my  own  sake,  I  do  believe,  and  not  for  my 
property." 

And  lie  Mas  the  only  fellow  who,  ignorant  of 
the  gimcrackery  of  literature— disregarding  my 
petty  "reputation" — my  barren  "laurels" — 
loved  heartily,  and  had  loved  from  boyhood,  not 
the  "celebrated  author,"  but  the  man  Alexan- 
der Fyfe. 

Such  a  friendship  as  ours,  cemented  by  its 


88 


THE  WATER  CURE. 


inconp-uitics,  was  rare — and  precious  as 
Love  could  not,  sliould  not,  annihilate 


ven' 
rare 
it. 

••Austin,  let's  to  bed. 
clearer  in  the  morning 
bless  you,  my  boy." 


We  shall  sec  things 
Good-night.      God 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

NKVEnxnELESS,  it  was  a  horrible  night,  and 
a  hoiTible  waking.  Things  stand  so  ghastly 
plain  in  the  face  of  day. 

Yet,  blessings  on  you,  friendly  Aquarius,  who 
came  so  welcomely  at  dawn,  with  pail  after  pail 
of  icy  torrents,  cooling  all  the  fever  in  my  blood, 
leaving  behind,  on  soul  as  well  as  body,  a  warm, 
heroic,  healthy  glow.  I  do  believe  half  the  pas- 
sions, crimes,  and  miseries  of  humanity  would  be 
calmed  down  imder  the  influence  of  water-cure. 
In  the  hall,  quaffing  our  matutinal  glass,  clear 
as  crystal,  refresliing  as  the  e//.r//'  vita;  my  cous- 
in and  I  met  face  to  face — faces,  strange,  no 
doubt,  and  pallid  still,  but  very  different  from 
last  night. 

N(j  reference  to  that ;  temporarily  the  ghost 
was  laid. 

"  Good-moming." 

"Good-morning.  Starting  for  your  walk? 
'Tis  damj),  rather." 

"  V'cry.     Are  you  for  the  wood  ?" 
"Probably.     And  you  for  the  moorland?" 
"Ay." 

So  tacitly  we  parted.  Generally  we  walked 
together,  but  not  now. 

Up  the  hillside,  through  tlic  mass  of  red 
beecli-leavcs  her  pony  had  trampled  through  ; 
how  dead  and  dank  they  now  lay,  slowly  pass- 
ing into  corruption.  Up,  up — it  is  my  habit 
never  to  rest  till  I  have  climbed  as  far  as  one 
can  climb — up,  steadily,  till  I  came  out.  on  the 
level  moorland. 

It  was  all  in  a  soft  mist.  Not  a  breath  stir- 
ring ;  not  a  waft  of  cold  December  wind.  The 
year  had  laid  itself  down  to  die  patiently.  It 
would  not  struggle  any  more.  Only  sometimes 
a  great  drop  would  come  with  a  ])lash  from  some 
fir-tree  hard  by,  like  a  heavy  involuntary  tear. 
Hut  the  leaden  sky  would  not  yield ;  the  rain 
refused  to  fall. 

I  walked  for  a  whole  hour  pondering.  The 
text  of  my  meditations  was  Austin's  saying  of 
last  night — 

"  She  is  my  better  self.  If  I  lose  her,  I  shall 
lose  my  soul." 

Now  I,  weak  as  my  body  was,  had  my  soul  in 
my  own  hand. 

I  might  die — probably  I  sliould  ;  but  I  did 
not  l)clieve  that  any  stroke,  however  heavy, 
woulil  drive  out  of  my  heart  tin;  virtue  which  her 
blessed  influence  had  imjilanted  there.  Mis- 
cry  might  kill  mc,  or  (possil)ly,  tlioii^ih  I  trusted 
in  God's  mercy  not!)  niigiit  make  me  a  lunatic, 
but  it  never  would  make  me  a  criminal.  Him, 
it  might. 


I  took  my  determination — at  least,  for  a  time 
— till  things  altered,  or  till  I  saw  some  dim 
light.  Oh  no !  Unless  I  sought  for  it,  toiled 
for  it,  prayed  for  it,  how  could  such  a  fellow  as 
I  hope  to  see  the  faintest  love-light  shining  on 
me  from  her  sweet  eyes  ? 

So  no  wrong  to  her  in  that  determination  of 
mine. 

Again  Austin  and  I  met  in  the  midst  of  a 
cluster  of  cheerful  patients — somehow  patients 
always  are  cheerful  at  the  water-cure.  We  were 
cheerful,  too.  I  felt,  and  something  in  his  voice 
causing  me  to  look  at  him  hard,  showed  me  he 
felt,  too,  an  extraordinary  calm. 

He  followed  me  to  our  rooms. 

"Alexander,  just  one  word.  I  have  thought 
over  last  night,  and  somewhat  changed  my 
mind." 

"  So  have  I." 

"I  shall  not  speak  to  her — not  just  yet." 

"Nor  I." 

Again  we  looked  fixedly  at  one  another — 
again,  hand  to  hand,  we  rivals,  yet  almost  broth- 
ers, closed. 

"Thank  you,  Austin." 

"You  are  a  good  fellow,  Fyfe." 

"I  think,"  said  I,  brokenly,  "  this  is  rig]it — 
this  is  how  she  would  wish  it  to  be.  AVe  must 
not  hate  one  another  for  love  of  her,  who  has 
been  a  saving  angel  to  us  both." 

"Ay,  so  she  has." 

"Let  her  be  so  still — let  every  thing  go  on 
as  usual,  till  some  chance  gives  either  a  sign 
of  her  regard.  'J'hen,  each  for  himself!  a  fair 
struggle,  and  Heaven  comfort  the  one  who 
falls  !" 


CHAPTER  XV. 

Day  after  day,  during  the  whole  of  those 
strange  two  weeks,  did  things  "go  on  as  usual." 
That  is,  we  met  her  at  breakfast,  at  dinner,  at 
supper ;  sometimes  walked  with  her,  drove  with 
her,  i)asscd  every  evening  in  her  j)resence,  with- 
in sound  of  her  voice,  within  brushing  of  her 
dress.  Twice  every  day — fool !  how  one  of  us 
used  to  court  and  wait  for  the  minute — we  each 
touched  her  hand.  And  many  times  a  day  that 
same  one — I  will  not  answer  for  the  other — 
would,  standing  by  her,  in  serious  fireside  ar- 
gument, or  easy  meal-time,  look  down,  right 
down — she  had  a  curiously  steady,  earnest,  in- 
nocent gaze,  when  she  was  talking — into  the 
inllnitely  tender  depths,  the  warm,  dark  s|)len- 
dors  of  her  eyes. 

Yet  neither  of  us,  by  word  or  look,  sought  to 
win,  or  by  any  word  or  look  of  hers  could  found 
a  hope  that  we  might  win,  her  ))reference. 

And,  night  after  nigiit,  when  the  day's  ordeal 
was  over,  we  used  to  sit  silent  over  the  fire  in 
our  own  room,  sometimes  b)'  chance  catching 
sight  of  one  anotlicr's  faces,  and  recognizing 
there  the  marvelous  self-denial,  the  heroic  self- 
control,  which  kejit  deferring,  each  for  the  other'a 
sake,  the  delicious,  the  fatal  day. 


THE  WATER  CURE. 


89 


We  sat — not  unlike  two  friends  drifting  sea- 
ward in  a  crazy  boat,  incapable  of  a  double 
freight,  who  sit  sadly  gazing — willing  to  pro- 
long the  time,  yet  knowing  that,  under  certain 
definite  circumstances,  and  within  a  certain 
definite  time,  one  or  the  other  must  go  down. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

She  was  sitting  talking  with  me  in  Dr. 
James's  study ;  no  one  there  but  our  two  selves 
— not  a  face  to  watch  hers  save  mine  —  and 
those  pictured  faces  on  the  walls,  which  she 
was  so  ibnd  of — rare  prints  gathered  by  James 
Come  on  his  wanderings : — grand  old  Buona- 
rotti,  th  J  angelic,  boyish  Raffaelle,  and  Giotto, 
with  that  noble,  irregular  profile,  serious,  sweet, 
and  brave. 

"It  is  not  unlike  Di-.  James  himself,  I  fancy." 
"Do  you  think  so ?     So  do  I  sometimes." 
And  Miss  Keir  sewed  faster  at  her  work — a 
collar  or  handkerchief  for  Harry,  who  had  been 
at  Highwood  now  for  several  days. 

"What  a  pure  nature  it  is !"  continued  I,  and 
still  looked  at  the  Giotto,  and  thinking  of  James 
Corrie.  "So  very  tender,  for  all  its  steadfast- 
ness and  strength.  I  hardly  ever  honored  any 
man  as  I  do  our  friend  the  doctor.  Do  not 
you?" 

"  He  has  been  the  kindest  friend  in  the  world 
to  Harry  and  to  me 


I  must  try  to  tell  him  so 
Surely,  not 


away 


,'? 


"And  to  me,  also, 
before  I  go  away." 

"You  are  not  going 
yet?" 

That  start — that  look  of  earnest  regret.  What 
a  leap  my  heart  gave ! 

"I  thought — I  understood,"  with  a  slight 
hesitation,  "that  you  were  to  stay  at  Highwood 
till  after  the  New-Year?" 

"Did  James  Corrie  say  so?  And  do  you 
wish  it  ?" 

And  that  warm,  soft  color  which,  during  all 
our  talk,  had  been  growing,  growing,  now  seemed 
glowing  into  scarlet  under  my  gaze.  No;  I 
would  not  take  away  my  eyes.  I  would  see 
whether  they  could  not  light  up  in  hers  some 
tithe  of  the  hidden  fire  that  I  knew  must  be 
burning  in  my  own. 

I  was  right!  She  did  tremble  —  she  did 
blush ;  vividly,  almost  like  a  girl  of  fifteen — 
this  calm,  this  quiet  EUice  Keir. 

"I  ought;  indeed  I  ought  to  leave.  My 
book — you  know — my — " 

Stammering,  I  ceased. 

She  laid  her  work  down,  and  looked  me 
straight  in  the  face,  in  her  peculiar  way,  saying 
softly—  '■' 

"No;  you  must  not  go.  Yo'ii  are  not  strong 
enough.  Besides,  I  want  you  to  stay — ^just  a 
week  longer.     Never  mind  your  book." 

"Miss  Keir,  you  know  I  would  thrust  it  and 
all  the  books  I  ever  ^vrote  into  that  flame  this 
minute,  if — " 


I  remembered  my  pledge.  Ay,  A-iJitin — sa- 
credly. 

"If  what?" 

' '  If  Miss  Keir  will  tell  me  the  reason  Avhy 
she  wishes  me  to  stay  ?" 

I  said  this  in  an  exaggeration  of  carelessness 
— even  trying  to  make  a  joke  of  it.  I  did  not 
expect  to  see  that  strange,  unwonted  blush  rise 
again  over  face  and  throat,  nor  to  see  her  very 
fingers  tremble  as  she  worked. 

What  was  to  become  of  me?  One  second 
more,  and  I  should  have  forgotten  all  —  she 
would  have  known  all.  Thank  God  it  was 
not  so. 

I  snatched  up  a  book,  muttered  some  vague 
apology,  and  rushed  out  of  her  sight. 

No ;  this  could  not  go  on.  An  end  must  be 
put  to  it  somehow.  While  she  was  iiuiifterent, 
quiet,  composed — merely  the  lady  who  smiling- 
ly shook  hands  with  me  morning  and  night,  I 
could  bear  it.  But  to  see  her,  as  I  saw  her 
this  morning — all  the  woman  stirred  in  her, 
blushing,  trembling — not  Miss  Keii-,  but  Ellice 
— Ellice  !  It  could  not  be.  The  crisis  nnist 
come. 

I  made  up  my  mind.  But  first  I  went  in 
search  of  Austin  Hardy — hesitatingly  and  slow; 
for  involuntarily  a  wild  conviction  had  forced 
itself  on  my  mind  (forgive  me,  thou  essence 
of  most  simple  and  pure  womanhood !  but  we 
men  have  such  delusions  sometimes)  a  con- 
viction that  Austin,  at  least,  would  never  win 
Ellice  Keir. 

I  went  to  meet  him  in  the  garden  with  a 
strange  pity — even  a  sort  of  remorse.  I  found 
him  walking,  talking,  and  laughing  with  Harry 
and  Ellice  Keir. 

"Yes,  certainly,  we  will  come,  both  Harry 
and  I,  and  see  all  these  wonderful  changes  and 
improvements  at  Netherlands.  I  am  so  happy 
to  think  of  them  all.  You  will  not  forget  one 
of  them.  You  promise  ?" 
"I  promise." 

She  spoke  earnestly — Harry  too  :  so  earnestly 
that  they  did  not  notice  me.  They  stood  still 
under  the  great  cedar.  Harry  Keir — what  a 
gleesome  face  the  young  fellow  had! — was  toss- 
ing up  and  catching  cedar  cones. 

"Yes;  I  will  promise  every  thing.  Nether- 
lands shall  begin  a  new  life,  like  its  master, 
please  God !  It  shall  hardly  know  its  old  like- 
ness. It  and  the  people  belonging  to  it  shall 
be  the  pattern  of  the  whole  country.  Will  that 
make  you  happy  ?" 

"  Very  happy.  Few  things  more." 
"And  — "  Ay,  dear  Austin,  I  heard  and 
honored  the  self-command  which  smoothed 
down  to  inditference  that  tremulous  tone — 
"when  will  you  do  me  that  honor?  It  shall 
be  quite  a  festival  when  you  visit  Netherlands. 
Fyfe — ah,  my  dear  fellow,  are  you  there  ? — 
Fyfc  shall  be  asked,  and  all  our  good  friends  at 
Highwood." 

"Bravo!"  cried  Harry,  with  a  laugh,  as  he 
tossed  up  his  biggest  fir-cone  ;  "  and  Dr.  James, 
of  course." 


90 


THE  WATER  CURE. 


"  Most  certainly.  Every  one  whom  she  cares 
for — every  one  who  honors  lier.  And  now,  Miss 
Keir,  will  you  too  promise  ? — When  will  you 
come  to  Netherlands  ?" 

"1  hope — some  time — next  year?" 

Were  my  eyes  dazzled  by  that  red  torrent 
which  seemed  to  roll  pouring  in  upon  my  brain  ; 
or  did  I  again  see,  as  an  hour  before,  that  same 
warm,  tremulous,  exquisite  blush — such  as  is 
always  coming  and  going  in  a  woman's  face 
when  she  loves,  and  is  very  hajjin"  ? 

Not  a  word  more.  She  was  gone.  Austin 
and  I  stood  under  the  heavy  shade  of  the  cedar. 
Was  it  that  which  made  his  face  and  my  heart 
seem  so  dark  and  cold  ? 

"Now,  Hardy?" 

"  Well,  I  hear  vou.     The  lime  has  come  ?" 

"  I  think  it  has."" 

I  saw  him  watching  her  on  the  terrace  where 
she  and  Harry  were  walking  merrily.  The  sun 
was  shining  tliere.  As  he  looked  all  the  gloom 
passed  out  of  his  countenance  ;  it  seemed  to 
gatlier  the  sunshine  too. 

Jealousy !  I  had  written  pages  on  jjages  about 
it — learned  "to  throw  myself  into  tlic  feeling," 
as  our  literary  cant  goes— fluttered  myself  I  had 
sketehcd  beautifully,  to  the  very  life,  tlie  wholiJ 
thing.  I3ut  now,  to  realize  what  I  had  de- 
scribed— and  fancy  indulged  in  a  cruel  spas- 
modic laugli  to  see  how  very  real  1  had  done 
it — now  to  feel  the  horror  gnawing  at  me,  like 
that  fiend  the  old  monk-painter  painted,  Avho 
afterward  came  and  stood  at  his  elbow  till  he 
died  ;  to  feel  not  only  through  my  brains  but  in 
my  heart  that  jealousy  of  whicli  we  jioets  prate 
so  grandly — make  into  such  pathetic  novels, 
such  withering  tragedies — jealousy,  which  we 
say  leads  to  hatred,  madness,  min-der !  I  could 
believe  it — I  could  jjrove  it.  I  jdumbed  its  low- 
est depths  of  possible  crime  in  tliat  one  minute 
wlicn  I  watched  my  cousin  Austin  watching 
EUice  Keir. 

I  had  loved  Austin — did  so  still.  Yet  for  that 
one  minute — hajipily  it  was  only  one — I  hated 
him,  loathed  him.  1  believe  I  could  have  seen 
liim  shot  down,  and  mounted  over  his  dead  bodv 
to  tlie  citadel  of  my  frenzied  hope — as  our  ])Oor 
fellows  are  perhaps  doing  tliis  day  as  I  write,  iu 
the  trendies  before  Sebastopol.  But,  "better 
is  he  that  rulcth  his  spirit  than  he  wlio  taketh 
a  city."     I  ruled  mine. 

"  Austin,  tills  must  end." 

"It  must.     When?" 

"  To-day  if  you  will.  There— look,  she  has 
gone  within  doors." 

We  stood— the  crisis  was  at  hand.  Our  life- 
l>oat  reeled — quivered.  Very  pale  sat  we.  Which 
would  be  the  one  to  go  down  ? 

"  Who  is  to  Iciirn  his  fortune  first  ?"  said 
Hardy. 

"  Let's  draw  lots."  I  lau-hed— I  felt  spurred 
on  t«  any  kind  of  insane  folly.  "  Let's  toss  up, 
us  the  children  do;  or,  since  the  coin  of  the 
realm  is  as  dross  to  you,  and  as  life's  worth  to 
me — let's  take  to  the  scntiimntal,  tlic  poetical. 
Here,  choose." 


I  tore  off  a  sjnig  of  cedar  and  a  sprig  of  a 
yew-tree  hard  by,  and  held  out  to  him  the  two 
stems,  the  leaves  being  hidden. 

"  Now,  which  ?  Who  is  for  his  cedar-palace, 
and  who  for  his  branch  of  yew  ?" 

I  know  Hardy  thought  I  was  losing  my  wits 
fast.  He  looked  at  me  witli  pity.  "No,"  he 
said,  gently;  "no  child's  play — we  must  be 
men.      Go  you  in  and  speak  to  her  first." 

He  leapt  the  hedge  into  the  field.  So  it  be- 
came my  doom.    Best,  far  the  best. 

The  door  luijipened  to  be  fastened.  I  thought 
I  would  get  into  the  house,  as  I  often  did,  by  the 
low  windows  of  the  doctor's  study.  Standing 
there  I  looked  in. 

James  Corrie  sat  at  his  table,  not  writing,  but 
thinking.  His  chin  was  on  his  folded  hands — 
his  eyes  out-looking,  calm  and  clear.  What  a 
noble  face  it  was — the  face  of  one  who  has  gone 
through  seas  of  trouble,  and  landed  at  length 
in  serene,  soul-satisfying  joy. 

Twice  I  knocked  at  the  pane,  and  he  did  not 
perceive  me.  Then  hearing  me  call,  he  came 
forwra'd,  smiling. 

I  said  1  would  not  interrupt  him,  as  I  was 
going  to  Miss  Keir. 

"Just  stay  one  minute.  I  wanted  to  =;ay  a 
word  to  vou — in  fact,  by  the  particular  wish  of 
Miss  Keir." 

I  sat  down. 

James  Corrie  folded  his  newspajicr,  closed 
Ills  desk,  looked — something  different  from  what 
James  Corrie  was  wont  to  look,  but  happy,  in- 
effably ha))])y. 

"  I  am  waiting  to  hear — " 

"Ay,  and  you  shall  hear,  my  old  friend,  for 
I  know  }i)u  will  rejoice.  Simply  this.  Miss 
Keir  has  told  me  you  intend  leaving  us,  and  she 
wishes,  most  earnestly,  that  you  would  stay  till 
after  the  New  Year." 

"And  you?" 

"Even  if  Alexander  Fyfe  were  not  welcome 
for  his  own  sake,  as  he  knows  he  is,  still  wliat- 
ever  adds  to  her  hapjuncss  must  necessarily  add 
to  mine. 

He  whom  I  knew  she  held — as  in  his  simple 
goodness  all  good  women  might  hold  him — like 
a  very  brother ;  lie  who,  slie  said,  had  been  to  iier 
"the  kindest  friend  in  the  world" — strange  for 
him  to  sjjeak  to  me  thus!  I'crhaps,  in  spite  of 
myself,  I  had  l)etraycd  my  feelings.  Did  he 
think — did  lie  guess — 

"I  see,  ^sia,  you  do  not  quite  understand  me. 
You  do  not  know — in  truth,  being  neither  of  us 
young,  we  were  rather  unwilling  it  siiould  be 
known  or  talked  about — that  Miss  Keir  and 
myself  have  been  engaged  for  two  years.  'J'hat, 
God  willing,  next  Saturday,  New-Year's  morn- 
ing, will  be  our  wedding-day." 


CHAPTER  XVH. 

No — I  was  rigiit ;  it  did  not  slay  me.  This 
misery  i)assed  by,  and  destroyed  neither  my  life 
nor  Austin's  soul. 


THE  LAST  HOUSE  IN  C- 


STREET. 


91 


God's  mercy  sir.nigthened  me  ;  I  was  able  to 
heli>  and  streii<j;then  him.  It  was  very  fortunate 
that  only  I  was  jjresent  when  the  truth  came 
out. 

Tliat  truth  neither  James  Corrie  nor  his  wife 
have  everyuessed  or  will  ever  learn.  Why  should 
they  ?  It  would  only  pain  them  in  their  hapjti- 
ness.  And  what  blame  to  them?  It  was  all 
our  own  delusion.  He  is  still  the  worthiest  man, 
and  she  the  noblest  woman,  we  ever  knew.  God 
bless  them ! 

Hardy  has  <iOiie  home  to  his  estates,  where  he 
intends  always  to  reside.  If  he  is  able  to  carry 
out  one-half  of  his  jmrposes,  no  wealthy  land- 
owner in  England  will  be  more  useful,  more 


honored  in  his  generation,  than  Austin  Hardy, 
Esquire,  of  Netherlands  ;    and  widely  different ' 
as  our  fortunes  are,  he  and  I  shall  be  as  brothers 
until  death. 

j      For  myself,  I  am  now  in   my  old   London 

I  haunts,  finishing  my  long-untinished  book.     It 

I  will  be  a  difterent  book  from  what  it  was  to 

j  be  ;    different,  oh  how  diifei-cnt !   from  what  it 

!  might   have    been.       But    it    will    be    a    very 

tolerable  book  still — wholesome,  cheerful,  brave. 

Such    an    one    as    is    the    "/o    trhimjihe"   of 

a  great  spiritual  Marathon — such  an  one  as  I 

never  could  have  written  in  all  my  days,  had  I 

not,  in  body  and  soul,  undergone  the  Water 

Cure. 


THE  LAST  HOUSE  IN  C-  STREET. 


I  AM  not  a  believer  in  ghosts  in  general ;  I 
see  no  good  in  them.  They  come — that  is,  are 
reported  to  come — so  irrelevantly,  purposeless- 
ly— so  ridiculously,  in  short — -that  one's  com- 
mon sense  as  regards  this  world,  one's  supernat- 
ural sense  of  tiie  other,  are  alike  revolted.  Then 
nine  out  of  ten  of  the  "capital  ghost  stories"  are 
so  easily  accounted  for;  and  in  the  tenth,  when 
all  natural  explanation  fails,  one  who  has  dis- 
covered the  extraordinary  difficulty  there  is  in 
all  society  in  getting  hold  of  that  very  slippery 
article  called  a  fact,  is  strongly  inclined  to  shake 
a  dubious  head,  ejaculating,  "Evidence!  it  is 
all  a  question  of  evidence  !" 

But  my  unbelief  springs  from  no  dogged  or 
contemptuous  ske))ticism  as  to  the  possibility — 
however  great  the  improbability — of  that  strange 
impression  u]ion,  or  communication  to,  spirit  in 
matter,  from  spirit  wholly  immaterialized,  which 
is  vulgarly  called '*  a  ghost."  There  is  no  cre- 
dulity more  blind,  no  ignorance  more  childish, 
than  that  of  the  sage  who  trios  to  measure 
"heaven  and  earth  and  the  things  under  the 
earth,"  with  the  small  two-foot  rule  of  his  own 
brains.  Dare  we  jjresume  to  argue  concerning 
any  mystery  of  the  universe,  "  It  is  inexplica- 
ble, and  therefore  impossible  ?" 

Premising  these  opinions,  though  simply  as 
opinions,  I  am  about  to  relate  what  I  must  con- 
fess seems  to  me  a  thorough  ghost-story  ;  its  ex- 
ternal and  circumstantial  evidence  being  indis- 
putable, while  its  psychological  causes  and  re- 
sults, though  not  easy  of  explanation,  are  still 
more  difficult  to  be  explained  away.  The  ghost, 
like  Hamlet's,  was  "an  honest  ghost."  From 
her  daughter — an  old  lady,  who,  bless  her  good 
and  gentle  memory !  has  since  learned  the  se- 
crets of  all  things — I  heard  this  veritable  tale. 

"My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  MacArthur  to  me — it 
was  in  the  early  days  of  table-moving,  when 
young  folk  ridiculed  and  elder  folk  were  shocked 


at  the  notion  of  calling  up  one's  departed  an- 
cestors into  one's  dinner-table,  and  learning  the 
wonders  of  the  angelic  world  by  the  bobbingsof 
a  hat  or  the  twirlings  of  a  plate — "My  dear," 
continued  the  old  ladv,  "I  do  not  like  trifling 
with  spirits." 

"  Why  not  ?     Do  vou  believe  in  them  ?" 

"A  little." 

' '  Did  you  ever  see  one  ?" 

"Never.     But  once  I  heard  one." 

She  looked  serious,  as  if  she  hardly  liked  to 
speak  about  it,  either  from  a  sense  of  awe  or 
from  fear  of  ridicule.  But  it  was  impossible  to 
laugh  at  any  illusions  of  the  gentle  old  lady, 
who  never  uttered  a  harsh  or  satirical  word  to 
a  living  soul.  Likewise  the  evident  awe  with 
which  she  mentioned  the  circumstance  was  rath- 
er remarkable  in  one  who  had  a  large  stock  of 
common  sense,  little  wonder,  and  no  ideality. 

I  was  rather  curious  to  hear  Mrs.  MacArthur's 
ghost-story. 

"My  dear,  it  was  a  long  time  ago,  so  long 
that  you  may  fancy  I  forget  and  confuse  the 
circumstances.  But  I  do  not.  Sometimes  I 
think  one  recollects  more  clearly  things  that 
happened  in  one's  teens— I  was  eighteen  that 
year — than  a  great  many  nearer  events.  And 
besides,  I  had  other  reasons  for  remembering 
vividly  every  thing  belonging  to  this  time — for 
I  was  in  love,  you  must  know." 

She  looked  at  me  with  a  mild,  deprecating 
smile,  as  if  hoping  my  youthfulness  would  not 
consider  the  thing  so  very  impossible  or  ridicu- 
lous.     No  ;  I  was  all  interest  at  once. 

"In  love  withMr.  MacArthur,"  1  said,  scarce- 
ly as  a  question,  being  at  that  Arcadian  time 
of  life  when  one  takes  as  a  natural  necessity, 
and  believes  in  as  an  undoubted  truth,  that  all 
people,  that  is,  good  people,  marry  their  first 
love. 

"No,  my  dear;  not  withMr.  MacArthur.'' 


92 


THE  LAST  HOUSE  IN  C- 


STREET. 


I  was  so  astonished,  so  completely  dumb- 
foundered — for  I  had  woven  a  sort  of  ideal  round 
mv  pood  old  friend — that  I  suffered  Mrs.  Mac- 
Arthur  to  knit  in  silence  for  full  five  minutes. 
^Iv  surprise  was  not  lessened  when  she  said, 
with  a  gratified  little  smile — 

"  He  was  a  young  gentleman  of  good  parts  ; 
and  he  was  very  fond  of  me.  Proud,  too,  rath- 
er. For  though  you  might  not  think  it,  my 
dear,  I  was  actually  a  beauty  in  those  days." 

I  had  very  little  doubt  of  it.  The  slight 
lithe  figure,  the  tiny  hands  and  feet — if  you  had 
walked  behind  Mrs.  MacArthur  down  the  street 
you  might  have  taken  her  for  a  young  woman 
still.  Certainly,  people  lived  slower  and  easier 
in  the  last  generation  than  in  ours. 

"  Yes,  I  was  the  beauty  of  Batli.  Mr.  Ever- 
est fell  in  love  with  me  there.  I  was  much 
gratified  ;  for  I  had  just  been  reading  Miss 
Burney's  'Cecilia,'  and  I  thought  him  exactly 
like  Mortimer  Delvil.  A  very  pretty  story,  '  Ce- 
cilia ;'  did  you  ever  read  it?" 

"No."  And,  to  arrive  quick  at  her  tale,  I 
leaped  to  the  only  conclusion  which  could  rec- 
oncile the  two  facts  of  my  good  old  friends  hav- 
ing had  a  lover  named  Everest,  and  being  now 
JMrs.  MacArthur.  "  Was  it  his  ghost  you  saw?" 
"  No,  my  dear,  no  ;  thank  goodness,  he  is  alive 
still.  He  calls  here  sometimes  ;  he  has  been  a 
faithful  friend  to  our  family.  Ah  I"  with  a 
slow  shake  of  the  head,  half  pleased,  half  pen- 
sive, "you  would  iiardly  believe,  my  dear,  what 
a  very  pretty  fellow  he  was." 

One  could  scarcely  smile  at  the  odd  phrase, 
j>ertaining  to  last-century  novels  and  to  the  loves 
of  our  great-grandmothers.  I  listened  patiently 
to  the  wandering  reminiscences  which  still  fur- 
ther delayed  the  ghost-story. 

"But,  Mrs.  MacArthur,  Avas  it  in  Bath  that 
you  saw  or  heard  what  I  think  you  were  going 
to  tell  me?     The  ghost,  you  know?" 

"  Don't  call  it  l/iat ;  it  sounds  as  if  you  were 
lau;;hing  at  it.  And  you  must  not,  for  it  is 
really  true ;  as  true  as  that  I  sit  here,  an  old 
lady  of  seventy-five  ;  and  that  then  I  was  a 
young  gentlewoman  of  eighteen.  Nay,  my  dear, 
i  wili  tell  you  all  about  it." 

"We  had  been  staying  in  London,  my  father 
and  motiier,  Mr.  Everest,  and  I.  He  luid  per- 
suadeil  them  to  take  me ;  he  wanted  to  show 
me  a  little  of  the  world,  though  even  his  world 
was  but  a  narrow  one,  my  dear — for  he  was  a 
law  student,  living  poorly  and  working  hard. 

"He  took  lodgings  for  us  near  the  Tcmjiie  ; 

in  C Street,  the  last  house  there,  looking 

on  to  the  river.  He  was  very  fond  of  tlie  river ; 
and  often  of  evenings,  wlien  his  work  was  too  | 
heavy  to  let  him  take  us  to  Kanelagh  or  to  the 
play,  he  used  to  walk  with  my  father  and  moth- 
er and  me,  up  and  down  the  Temple  Gardens. 
Were  you  ever  in  the  Teiiii)lc  Gardens?  It  is 
a  pretty  place  now — a  <iuiet,  gray  nook  in  the 
midst  of  noise  and  bustle  ;  the  stars  look  won- 
derful through  tliose  great  trees;  but  still  it  is 
not  like  what  it  was  then,  when  I  was  a  girl." 

Ah!  no;  impossible. 


"It  was  in  the  Temple  Gardens,  my  dear, 
that  I  remember  we  took  our  last  walk — my 
mother,  ]\Ir.  Everest,  and  I — before  she  went 
home  to  Bath.  She  was  ver}'  anxious  and  rest- 
less to  go,  being  too  delicate  for  London  gaye- 
ties.  Besides,  she  had  a  large  family  at  home, 
of  which  I  was  the  eldest ;  and  we  were  anx- 
iously expecting  the  youngest  in  a  month  or 
two.  Nevertheless,  my  dear  mother  had  gone 
about  with  me,  taken  me  to  all  the  shows  and 
sights  that  I,  a  hearty  and  happy  girl,  longed  to 
see,  and  entered  into  them  with  almost  as  great 
enjoyment  as  my  own. 

"But  to-night  she  was  pale,  rather  grave, 
and  steadfastly  bent  on  returning  home. 

"We  did  all  we  could  to  persuade  her  to  the 
contrary,  for  on  the  next  night  but  one  was  to 
have  been  the  crowning  treat  of  all  our  London 
pleasures :  we  were  to  see  Hamlet  at  Drury 
Lane,  with  John  Kemble,  and  Sarah  Siddons ! 
Think  of  that,  my  dear.  Ah!  you  have  no  such 
sights  now.  Even  my  grave  father  longed  to 
go,  and  urged  in  his  mild  way  that  we  should 
jiut  off"  our  departure.  But  my  mother  was  de- 
termined. 

"  At  last  Mr.  Everest  said — I  could  show  yoa 
the  very  spot  where  he  stood,  with  the  rivcT — it 
was  high  water — lapping  against  the  wall,  and 
the  evening  sun  shining  on  the  Southwark 
houses  opposite.  He  said — it  was  very  wrong, 
of  course,  my  dear ;  but  then  he  was  in  love, 
and  might  be  excused — 

"'Mad.un,'  said  he,  *  it  is  the  first  time  I 
ever  knew  vou  think  of  yourself  alone.' 

"'Myself,  Edniond?' 

"  'Pardon  me,  but  would  it  not  be  possible 
for  you  to  return  home,  leaving  behind  for  two 
days  only  Mr.  Thwaite  and  Mistress  Dorothy?' 

"  'Leave  them  behind — leave  them  behind!' 
She  mused  over  the  words.  'What  say  you, 
Dorothy  ?' 

"  I  was  silent.  In  very  truth,  I  had  never 
been  parted  from  her  in  all  my  life.  It  had 
never  crossed  my  mind  to  wish  to  part  from  her, 
or  to  enjoy  any  jjleasurc  without  her,  till — till 
within  the  last  three  months.  'Mother,  don't 
sujjjwse  I — ' 

"  But  here  I  caught  ."sight  of  Mr.  Everest  and 
stopped. 

"  'Pray  continue,  Mistress  Dorothy." 

"No,  I  could  not.  He  looked  so  vexed,  so 
hurt;  and  we  had  been  so  hajjjiy  together.  Also, 
we  might  not  meet  again  for  years,  for  the  jour- 
ney between  London  and  Bath  was  then  a  seri- 
ous one,  even  to  lovers ;  and  he  worked  very 
hard — had  few  ]deasures  in  his  life.  It  did  in- 
deed seem  almost  selfish  of  my  motlier. 

"Though  my  lips  said  notliing,  pcrhai)S  my 
sad  eyes  said  only  too  much,  and  my  mother 
felt  it. 

"  She  walked  with  us  a  few  yards,  slowly  and 
thoughtfully.  I  could  sec  her  now,  with  her 
pale,  tired  face,  under  the  cherry-colored  ribbons 
of  her  hood.  She  had  been  very  handsome  as 
a  young  woman,  and  was  most  sweet-looking 
still — my  dear,  good  mother ! 


THE  LAST  HOUSE  IN  C- 


STREET. 


93 


"  'Dorothy,  we  will  no  more  discuss  tliis.  I 
am  very  sorry,  but  I  must  go  liome.  However, 
I  will  persuade  your  father  to  remain  with  you 
till  the  week's  end.     Are  you  satisfied  ?' 

"  'No,'  was  the  first  filial  impulse  of  my  heart; 
but  Edmond  pressed  my  arm  with  such  an  en- 
treating look  that  almost  against  my  will  I  an- 
swered, 'Yes.' 

' '  Mr.  Everest  overwhelmed  my  mother  with 
his  delight  and  gratitude.  She  walked  up  and 
down  for  some  time  longer,  leaning  on  his  arm 
— she  was  very  fond  of  him ;  then  stood  look- 
ing on  the  river,  upward  and  downward. 

"  'I  suppose  this  is  my  last  walk  in  London. 
Thank  you  for  all  the  care  you  have  taken  of 
me.  And  when  I  am  gone  home— mind,  oh, 
mind,  Edmond,  that  you  take  sfxicial  care  of 
Dorothy.' 

"These  words,  and  the  tone  in  which  they 
were  spoken,  fixed  themselves  on  my  mind — 
first,  from  gratitude,  not  uiimingled  with  regret, 
as  if  I  had  not  been  so  considerate  to  her  as  she 
to  me ;  afterward — but  we  often  err,  my  dear, 
in  dwelling  too  much  on  that  word.  We  finite 
creatures  have  only  to  deal  with  'now' — nothing 
whatever  to  do  with  '  afterward.'  In  this  case, 
I  have  ceased  to  blame  myself  or  others.  What- 
ever was,  being  past,  was  right  to  be,  and  could 
not  have  been  otherwise. 

"  My  mother  went  home  next  morning,  alone. 
We  were  to  follow  in  a  few  days,  though  slie 
would  not  allow  us  to  fix  any  time.  Her  de- 
parture was  so  hurried  that  I  remember  nothing 
about  it,  save  her  answer  to  my  father's  urgent 
desire  —  almost  command  —  that  if  any  thing 
were  amiss  she  would  immediutajy  let  him 
know. 

'"Under  all  circumstances,  wife,'  he  reiter- 
ated, '  this  you  promise  ?' 

"  '  I  promise.' 

''  Though  when  she  was  gone  he  declared  she 
need  not  have  said  it  so  earnestly,  since  we 
should  be  at  home  almost  as  soon  as  the  slow 
Bath  coach  could  take  her  there  and  bring  us 
back  a  letter.  And  besides,  there  was  nothing 
likely  to  happen.  But  he  fidgeted  a  good  deal, 
being  unused  to  her  absence  in  their  happy 
wedded  life.  He  was,  like  most  men,  glad  to 
blame  any  body  but  himself,  and  the  whole  day, 
and  the  next,  was  cross  at  intervals  with  both 
Edmond  and  me ;  but  we  bore  it — and  pa- 
tiently. 

"  '  It  will  be  all  right  when  we  get  him  to  the 
theatre.  He  has  no  real  cause  for  anxiety  about 
her.  What  a  dear  woman  she  is,  and  a  pre- 
cious— your  mother,  Dorothy!' 

'•  I  rejoiced  to  hear  my  lover  speak  thus,  and 
thought  there  hardly  ever  was  young  gentlewo- 
man so  blessed  as  I. 

"We  went  to  the  play.  Ah,  you  know  no- 
thing of  what  a  play  is,  nowadays.  You  never 
saw  John  Kemble  and  Mrs.  Siddons.  Though 
in  dresses  and  shows  it  was  far  inferior  to  the 
Hamlet  you  took  me  to  see  last  week,  my  dear 
— and  though  I  perfectly  well  remember  be- 
ing on  the  point  of  laughing  when,  in  the  most 


solemn  scene,  it  became  clearly  evident  that  the 
Ghost  had  been  drinking.  Strangely  enough, 
no  after  events  connected  therewith  ever  were 
able  to  drive  from  my  mind  the  vivid  impression 
of  this  my  first  play.  Strange,  also,  that  the 
play  should  have  been  Hamlet.  Do  you  think 
that  Shakspeare  believed  in — in  what  people  call 
'  ghosts  ?' " 

I  could  not  say  ;  but  I  thought  Mrs.  Jlac- 
Arthur's  ghost  very  long  in  coming. 

"Don't,  my  dear— don't ;  do  any  thing  but 
laugh  at  it." 

She  was  visibly  affected,  and  it  was  not  with- 
out an  eftbrt  that  she  proceeded  in  her  story. 

"I  wish  you  to  understand  exactly  my  posi- 
tion that  night— a  young  girl,  her  head  full  of 
the  enchantment  of  the  stage — her  heart  of 
something  not  less  engrossing.  Mr.  Everest 
had  supped  with  us,  leaving  us  both  in  the  best 
of  spirits  ;  indeed,  my  father  had  gone  to  bed, 
laughing  heartily  at  the  remembrance  of  the  an- 
tics of  Mr.  Grimaldi,  Avhich  had  almost  obliter- 
ated the  Queen  and  Hamlet  from  his  memorj% 
on  which  the  ridiculous  always  took  a  far  stron- 
ger hold  than  the  awful  or  sublime. 

"I  was  sitting — let  me  see — at  tlie  window, 
chatting  with  my  maid  Patty,  who  was  brushing 
the  powder  out  of  my  hair.  The  window  was 
open  half-way  and  looking  out  on  the  Thames, 
and  the  summer  night  being  very  wann  and 
starry  made  it  almost  like  sitting  out  of  doors. 
There  was  none  of  the  awe  given  by  the  solitude 
of  a  closed  room,  when  every  sound  is  magni- 
fied, and  every  shadow  seems  alive. 

"As  I  said,  we  had  been  chatting  and  laugh- 
ing ;  for  Patty  and  I  were  both  very  young,  and 
she  had  a  sweetheart,  too.  She,  like  every 
one  of  our  household,  was  a  warm  admirer  of 
Mr.  Everest.  I  had  just  been  half  scolding, 
half  smiling  at  her  praises  of  him,  when  St. 
Paul's  great  clock  came  booming  over  tlie  silent 
river. 

'"Eleven,"  counted  Patty.  'Terrible  late 
we  be.  Mistress  Dorothy  :  not  like  Bath  hours, 
I  reckon.' 

"  '  ^lother  will  have  been  in  bed  an  hour  ago,' 
said  I,  \\ith  a  little  self-reproach  at  not  having 
thought  of  her  till  now. 

"The  next  minute  my  maid  and  I  both  start- 
ed up  with  a  simultaneous  exclamation. 

"'Did  you  hear  that?' 

"  'Yes,  a  bat  flying  against  the  window.' 

'"But  the  lattices  are  open.  Mistress  Doro- 
thy.' 

"  So  they  were ;  and  there  was  no  bird  or 
bat  or  living  thing  about — only  the  quiet  sum- 
mer night,  the  river,  and  the  stars. 

"  '  I  lie  certain  sure  I  heard  it.  And  I  think 
it  was  like — just  a  bit  like — somebody  tapping.' 

"  'Nonsense,  Patty  !'  But  it  had  struck  me 
thus — though  I  said  it  was  a  bat.  It  was  ex- 
actly like  the  sound  of  fingers  against  a  ])ane — 
very  soft,  gentle  fingers,  such  as,  in  passing  into 
her  flower-garden,  my  mother  used  often  to  tap 
outside  the  school-room  casement  at  home. 

"  '  1  wonder  tiid  IVahcr  hear  any  thing.     It — 


94 


THE  LAST  HOUSE  IN  C- 


STREET. 


the  bird,  vou  know,  I'atty — might  have  flown 
at  his  window,  too  ?' 

"  '  Oh,  :\Iisticss  Dorothy  1'  Patty  would  not 
be  deceived.  I  yave  her  the  brush  to  finish  my 
liair,  but  her  hand  shook  too  much.  I  shut  the 
window,  and  we  botli  sat  down  facing  it. 

"At  that  minute,  distinct,  clear,  and  unmis- 
takable, like  a  jicrson  giving  a  summons  in 
passing  by,  we  heard  once  more  the  tap])ing  on 
the  pane.  But  notliing  was  seen  ;  not  a  single 
shadow  came  between  us  and  the  open  air,  the 
bright  starlight. 

'•Starilcd  I  was,  and  awed,  Init  I  was  not 
friglitcneil.  The  sound  gave  me  even  an  inex- 
plicable delight.  But  I  had  hardly  time  to  rec- 
ognize my  feelings,  still  less  to  analyze  them, 
when  a  loud  crv  came  from  my  father's  room. 

'"Dolly— Dolly:"' 

"  Now  my  mother  aiid  I  had  both  one  name, 
but  he  always  gave  her  the  old-fashioned  pet 
name — I  was  invariably  Dorothy.  Still  I  did 
not  pause  to  think,  but  ran  to  his  locked  door 
and  answered. 

"It  was  a  long  time  before  he  took  any  no- 
tice, though  I  heard  him  talking  to  himself,  and 
moaning.  He  was  subject  to  bad  dreams,  espe- 
cially before  his  attacks  of  gout.  So  my  first 
alarm  liglitcncd.  I  stood  listening,  knocking 
at  intervals,  until  at  last  he  replied. 

"  'What  do'ce  want,  child?' 

"  'Is  any  thing  the  matter,  father?' 

"  'Notliing.      Go  to  thy  bed,  Dorothy.' 

"'Did  you  not  call?  Do  you  want  any 
one?' 

'"Not  thee.  O  Dolly,  my  poor  Dolly'— 
and  he  seemed  to  be  almost  sobbing,  '  "Why  did 
I  let  tliee  leave  me!' 

"  'Father,  you  are  not  going  to  be  ill?  It 
is  not  the  gout,  is  it  ?'  (for  that  was  tlie  time 
when  he  wanted  my  mother  most,  and,  indeed, 
wlien  he  was  wholly  unmanageable  by  any  one 
but  her). 

"  'Go  away.  Get  to  thy  bed,  girl ;  I  don't 
want  'ec.' 

"I  thought  he  was  angry  with  me  for  having 
been  in  some  sort  the  cause  of  our  delay,  and 
retired  very  miserable.  I'atty  and  I  sat  up  a 
good  while  longer,  discussing  the  dreary  pros- 
pect of  my  father's  having  a  fit  of  the  gout  bore 
in  London  lodgings,  witli  only  us  to  nurse  him, 
and  my  mother  away.  Our  alarm  was  go  great 
that  we  rpiite  forgot  the  curious  circumstance 
which  liad  tir>t  attracted  us,  till  Patty  spoke  isp 
from  her  bed  on  the  floor. 

"  'I  lio|)e  master  beant  going  to  be  very  ill, 
and  that  noise — you  know — came  for  a  warn- 
ing. Do  'ee  think  it  u-us  a  bird,  Mistress  Dor- 
othy ?' 

'"'  'Very  likely, 
sleep.' 

"  But  I  did  not,  for  all  night  I  heard  my  fa- 
ther groaning  at  intenals.  I  was  certain  it  was 
the  gout,  and  wished  from  tlic  bottom  of  my 
licart  that  wc  had  gone  home  with  iiiotiicr. 

"  What  was  my  surprise  when,  (juite  early, 
I  heard  biin  rise  and  go  down,  just  as  if  no- 


Now,   Patty,   let  us  go  to 


thing  was  ailing  him  !  I  found  him  sitting  at 
the  breakfast-table  in  his  traveling  coat,  looking 
very  haggard  and  miserable,  but  evidently  bent 
on  a  journey. 

"  '  Father,  you  are  not  going  to  Bath  ?' 

"  'Yes,  I  be.' 

"  'Not  till  the  evening  coach  starts,'  I  cried,^ 
alarmed.      'We  can't,  you  know.' 

"  'I'll  take  a  post-chaise,  then.  A\'e  must 
be  oft'  in  an  hour.' 

"An  hour!  The  cruel  pain  of  parting 
(my  dear,  I  believe  I  used  to  feel  things  keenly 
when  I  was  young)  shot  through  me,  through 
and  through.  A  single  hour,  and  I  should 
have  said  good-by  to  Edmond — one  of  those 
heart-breaking  farewells  when  we  seem  to  leave 
half  of  our  poor  young  life  behind  us,  forgetting 
that  the  only  real  parting  is  when  there  is  no 
love  left  to  part  from.  A  few  years,  and  I 
woiulered  how  I  could  have  crej)t  away  and 
we])t  in  such  intolerable  agony  at  the  mere  bid- 
ding good-by  to  Edmond — Edmond,  who  loved 
me  ! 

"  Every  minute  seemed  a  day  till  he  came  in, 
as  usual,  to  breakfast.  My  red  eyes  and  my 
father's  corded  trunk  explained  all. 

"  'Dr.  Thwaite,  you  are  not  going?'     "* 

"  'Yes,  I  am,'  repeated  my  father.  He  sat 
moodily  leaning  on  the  table — would  not  taste 
his  breakfast. 

"  'Not  till  the  night  coach,  surely  ?  I  was 
to  take  yon  and  ^Mistress  Dorothy  to  sec  Mr. 
Benjamin  West,  the  King's  j)ainter.' 

"  'Let  King  and  painters  alone,  lad  ;  I  am 
going  home  to  my  Dolly.' 

"Mr.  Eferest  used  many  arguments,  gay  and 
grave,  upon  which  I  hung  with  earnest  con- 
viction and  hojie.  He  made  things  so  cl;'ar 
always.  He  was  a  man  of  much  bri;;hter  parts 
than  my  father,  and  had  great  influence  over 
him. 

"  'Dorothy,'  he  whispered,  '  iielp  me  to  ])er- 
suade  the  doctor.  It  is  so  little  time  I  beg  for 
— only  a  few  hours — and  before  so  long  a  i)art- 
ing.' — Ay,  longer  than  he  thought,  or  I. 

"  'Chihlren,'  cried  my  father,  at  last,  'you 
are  a  cotijilc  of  fools.  Wait  till  you  have  been 
married  twenty  years.  I  must  go  to  my  Dolly. 
I  know  there;  is  something  amiss  at  home.' 

"  I  should  have  felt  ahirmed,  but  I  saw  Mr. 
Everest  smile  ;  and  besides,  I  was  yet  growing 
under  his  fond  look,  as  my  father  spoke  of  our 
being  '  married  twenty  years.' 

"'Father,  you  have  surely  no  reason  for 
thinking  this?      If  you  have,  tell  us.' 

"My  father  just  lifted  his  head,  and  looked 
me  woefully  in  tiic  face. 

"  'Dorothy,  last  night,  as  sure  as  I  see  you 
now,  I  saw  your  mother.' 

'■  '  Is  that  all?'  cried  Mr.  Everest,  laughing. 
'  ^^'ily,  my  goocl  sir,  very  likely  you  did.  You 
were  dreaming  about  her.' 

"  'I  had  not  gone  to  sleep.' 

"  '  How  did  you  see  her?' 

"  '  Coming  into  my  room,  just  as  she  used 
to  do  in  our  bedroom  at  home,  with  the  can- 


THE  LAST  HOUSE  IN  C- 


STREET. 


95 


die  in  her  hand,  and  the  baby  asleep  on  her 
arm.' 

"  '  Did  slie  speak  ?'  asked  Mr.  Everest,  with 
another  and  rather  satirical  smile.  '  Remem- 
ber, you  saw  Hamlet  last  night.  Indeed,  sir — 
indeed,  Dorothy — it  was  a  mere  dream.  1  do 
not  believe  in  ghosts ;  it  would  be  an  insult  to 
common  sense,  to  human  wisdom — nay,  even  to 
Divinity  itself.' 

' '  Edmond  spoke  so  earnestly,  justly,  and 
withal  so  affectionately,  that  perforce  I  agreed ; 
and  even  my  father  became  to  feel  rather 
ashamed  of  his  own  weakness.  He,  a  sensible 
man  and  the  head  of  a  family,  to  yield  to  a 
mere  superstitious  fancy,  springing,  probably, 
from  a  hot  supper  and  an  overexcited  brain  ! 
To  the  same  cause  Mr.  Everest  attributed  the 
other  incident,  which  somewhat  hesitatingly  I 
told  him. 

"  'Dear,  it  was  a  bird — nothing  but  a  bird. 
One  flew  in  at  my  window  last  spring  ;  it  had 
hurt  itself;  and  I  kept  it,  and  nursed  it,  and 
petted  it.  It  was  sucli  a  pretty,  gentle  little 
thing,  it  put  me  in  mind  of  Dorothy.' 

"  'Did  it?'  said  I. 

"  'And  at  last  it  got  well  and  flew  away.' 

"  'Ah  !   that  was  not  like  Dorothy.' 

"Thus,  my  father  being  persuaded,  it  was 
not  hai'd  to  persuade  me.  We  settled  to  remain 
till  evening.  Edmond  and  I,  with  my  maid 
Patty,  went  about  together,  chiefly  in  Mr.  West's 
Gallen',  and  in  the  quiet  shade  of  our  fiivoritc 
Temple  Gardens.  And  if  for  those  four  stolen 
hours,  and  the  sweetness  in  them,  I  afterward 
suffeied  untold  remorse  and  bitterness,  I  have 
entirely  forgiven  myself,  as  I  know  my  dear 
mother  would  have  forgiven  me  long  ago." 

Mrs.  MacArthur  stopped,  wiped  her  eyes, 
and  then  continued,  si)eaking  more  in  the  mat- 
ter-of-foct  way  that  old  people  speak  in  than 
she  had  been  lately  doing. 

"  Well,  my  dear,  where  was  I  ?" 

"  In  the  Temple  Gardens." 

"  Yes,  yes.  Then  we  came  home  to  dinner. 
My  fatlier  always  enjoyed  his  dinner  and  his  nap 
afterward.  He  had  nearly  recovered  himself 
now — only  looked  tired  from  loss  of  rest.  Ed- 
mond and  I  sat  in  the  Avindow,  watching  the 
barges  and  wherries  down  the  Thames.  There 
were  no  steamboats  tlien,  you  know. 

"  Some  one  knocked  at  the  door  with  a  mes- 
sage for  my  father,  but  he  slept  so  heavily  he 
did  not. hear.  Mr.  Everest  went  to  see  wliat  it 
was  ;  I  stood  at  tlie  window.  I  remember  me- 
clianically  watching  the  red  sail  of  a  Margate 
hoy  that  was  going  down  the  river,  and  think- 
ing with  a  sharp  pang  how  dark  the  room 
seemed  to  grow  in  a  moment  with  Edmond  not 
there. 

"  Re-entering,  after  a  soniewliat  long  absence, 
he  never  looked  at  me,  but  went  straight  to  my 
father. 


"  '  Sir,  it  is  almost  time  for  you  to  start'  (oh  I 
Edmond).  '  There  is  a  coach  at  the  door ;  and, 
pardon  me,  but  I  think  you  should  travel  quick- 
ly.' 

"  My  father  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"'Dear  sir,  wait  one  moment;  I  have  re- 
ceived news  from  Bath.  You  have  another 
little  daughter,  sir,  and — ' 

"  '  Dolly,  my  Dolly  !'  Witliout  another  word 
my  father  rushed  away,  leaped  into  the  post- 
chaise  that  was  waiting,  and  drove  ofl". 

"  '  Edmond !'  I  gasped. 

"  '  My  poor  little  girl— my  own  Dorothy !' 

"  By  the  tenderness  of  his  embrace,  less  lover- 
like than  brother-like — by  his  tears,  for  I  could 
feel  them  on  my  neck — I  knew,  as  well  as  if  he 
had  told  me,  that  I  should  never  see  my  dear 
mother  an}'  more. 

"She  had  died  in  childbirth,"  continued  the 
old  lady  after  a  long  pause — "died  at  night,  at 
the  same  hour  and  minute  that  I  had  heard  tlio 
tapping  on  the  window-pane,  and  my  father  h:",d 
thought  he  saw  her  coming  into  his  room  with 
a  baby  on  her  arm." 

"Was  the  baby  dead,  too?" 

"  They  thought  so  then,  but  it  afterward  re- 
vived." 

"What  a  strange  story!" 

"  I  do  not  ask  you  to  believe  in  it.  How  and 
why  and  wliat  it  was  I  can  not  tell ;  I  only  know 
that  it  assuredly  was  as  I  have  told  it. 

"And  Mr.  Everest?"  I  inquired,  after  so.me 
hesitation. 

Tlie  old  lady  sliook  her  head.  "Ah,  my 
dear,  you  may  jjerliaps  learn — though  I  liojie 
you  will  not  —  how  very,  very  seldom  things 
turn  out  as  one  expects  when  one  is  young. 
After  that  day  I  did  not  see  Mr.  Everest  for 
twenty  years." 

"  How  wrong  of  him — how — " 

"Don't  blame  him;  it  was  not  his  fault.  You 
see,  after  that  time  my  father  took  a  prejudice 
against  him — not  unnatural,  ])ei  haps  ;  and  she 
was  not  there  to  make  things  straight.  Besides, 
my  own  conscience  was  very  sore,  and  there 
were  the  six  chiklren  at  home,  and  the  little 
baby  had  no  mother :  so  at  last  I  made  up  my 
mind.  I  should  have  loved  him  just  the  same 
if  we  had  waited  twenty  years.  I  told  him  so  ; 
but  he  coiikl  not  see  tilings  in  that  light.  Don't 
blame  him — my  dear — don't  blame  him.  It  was 
as  well,  jierhaps,  as  it  happened." 

"  Did  he  marry  ?" 

"Yes,  after  a  few  years;  and  loved  his  wife 
dearly.  When  I  was  about  one-and-thirty,  I 
married  Mr.  MacArthur.  So  neither  of  us  was 
uidiapijy,  you  see — at  least,  not  more  so  than 
most  jieople ;  and  we  became  sincere  friends 
afterward.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Everest  come  to  see 
me  still,  almost  every  Sunday.  Why,  you  fool- 
ish child,  you  are  not  crying?" 

Ay,  I  was — but  scarcely  at  the  ghost-story. 


A   FAMILY    II    LOVE. 


This  is  the  age  of  complainings.  Nolnxly 
suflers  in  silence ;  nobody  breaks  his  or  her 
heart  in  secrecy  and  solitude :  they  all  take 
"  the  public"  into  their  confidence — the  conven- 
ient public,  which,  like  nnirder, 

Ilath  no  tongue,  but  spouks 
'With  most  miraculous  organ. 

Of  course,  it  is  neither  the  confider's  fault  nor  yet 
the  confidant's,  if  the  winds  sometimes  whisjier 
that  King  Midas  has  asses'  ears. 

JNIine  is  no  such  confession.  I  have  no  gos- 
sij)  to  retail  of  my  neighbors :  I  am  a  very  quiet 
gentleman,  who  prefer  confining  my  interests 
and  observations  to  my  own  household,  my  own 
immediate  family.  Ay,  there  lies  my  inevita- 
ble grief,  there  lurks  my  secret  wrong  ;  I  am  the 
unhappy  elder  brother  of  a  family  in  love. 

The  fact  dimly  dawned  upon  mc,  widening  by 
degrees,  ever  since  I  came  home  from  India  last 
year,  and  took  upon  myself  the  charge  of  my 
five  sisters,  aged  from  about —  But  Martha 
might  object  to  my  particularizing.  Good  little 
I'atty  I  what  a  merry  creature  she  was  when  she 
went  nutting  and  fishing  with  me.  And  what 
ugly  caps  she  has  taken  to  wearing,  poor  dear! 
And  why  can't  she  speak  as  gently  when  scold- 
ing the  servants,  as  I  rememl)er  our  sweet- 
voiced,  pretty  mother  used  always  to  do  ?  And 
why,  in  spite  of  their  mutual  position,  will  she 
j)ersist  in  calling  Mr.  Green,  with  a  kind  of 
frigid  solemnity,  "  Mr.  Green  ?"  Hut  he  does 
not  seem  to  mind  it:  probably  he  never  was 
called  any  thing  else. 

lie  is  a  very  worthy  person,  nevertheless,  and 
I  have  a  great  respect  for  him.  When  my  sis- 
ter Martha — Miss  Heathcote,  as  she  has  been 
called  from  her  cradle — by  letter  announced  to 
me  at  Madras  that  she  intended  to  relinquish 
that  title  for  the  far  less  euphonious  one  of  Mrs. 
Green,  I  was,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  suqn-ised. 
I  had  thought,  for  various  reasons  (of  no  mo- 
ment nowj,  that  my  eldest  sister  was  not  likely 
to  marry — 1  ratiicr  hoped  she  would  not.  We 
might  have  been  so  comfortable,  poor  Patty  and 
I.  However,  I  had  no  business  to  interfere  with 
either  her  happiness  or  her  destiny ;  so  when, 
the  tirst  Sunday  after  my  arrival  at  home,  a  cozy 
carriage  drove  uji  the  avenue,  and  a  bald,  rather 
stout  little  man  got  out,  to  be  .solemnly  intro- 
uiKcd  to  mc  as  "  Mr.  Green,"  I  submitted  to  the 
force  of  circumstances,  and  to  the  duties  of  a 
brother-in-law. 

He  has  dined  with  us  every  Sunday  sinc-e. 
He  and  I  are  cajiital  friends;  regularly,  when 
the  ladies  retire,  he  informs  me  what  the  Funds 
have  been  at,  day  by  day  during  the  past  week, 


and  which  is  the  safest  railway  to  buy  shares  in 
for  the  week  following.  A  most  worthy  person, 
I  repeat ;  will  make  a  kind  husband,  and  I  sup- 
pose Martha  likes  him  ;  but — .  However,  poor 
girl,  she  is  old  enough  to  judge  for  herself,  and 
it  is  no  business  of  mine.  Some  time,  before 
long,  I  shall  give  her  away  at  the  old  parish 
church — quietly,  without  any  show ;  I  shall  see 
her  walk  down  the  church-aisle  with  old  Mr. 
Green — he  in  his  best  white  waistcoat,  and  she 
in  her  sober  gray  poplin,  which  she  insists  on 
being  married  in — not  the  clear  soft  muslin  and 
long  laee  vail  I  quite  well  remember  seeing 
Patty  working  at  and  blushing  over,  we  won't 
say  how  many  years  ago.  Well,  women  arc 
better  married,  they  say;  but  I  think  I  would 
rather  have  had  Martha  an  old  maid. 

My  second  sister,  Angeline,  was  fifteen  when 
I  left  England ;  and  the  very  loveliest  creature  I 
ever  beheld.  Every  body  knew  it,  every  body 
acknowledged  it.  She  could  not  walk  down  the 
street  without  people  turning  to  look  after  her; 
she  could  not  enter  a  room  without  creating  a 
general  whisjier:  "Who  is  she?"  The  same 
thing  continued  as  she  grew  up  to  womanhood. 
All  the  world  was  at  her  feet ;  every  one  said 
she  would  make  a  splendid  marriage — become 
a  countess  at  least ;  and  I  do  believe  Angeline 
herself  had  the  fullest  confidence  in  that  jnoba- 
bility.  She  refused  lovers  by  the  dozen  ;  every 
letter  I  got  told  me  of  some  new  slaughter  of 
Miss  xVngeline's.  I  would  have  pitied  the  poor 
fellows,  only  she  was  such  a  dazzling  beauty, 
and  no  man  falls  out  of  love  so  safely  as  a  man 
who  falls  in  love  with  a  beauty.  I  never  heard 
that  any  body  died  either  by  consumption,  cord, 
or  i)istol,  through  the  cruelty  of  my  sister  An- 
geline. 

j  But,  like  most  crxiel  damsels,  she  paiil  the 
penalty  of  her  hard-heartedness  ;  when  I  came 
home  I  found  Angeline  Heathcote,  Angeline 
Heathcote  still.  Beautiful  yet,  beautiful  exceed- 
ingly ;  a  walking  picture,  a  visible  poem :  it 
was  a  real  jileasure  to  me  to  have  such  a  hand- 
some creature  alunit  the  house.  Though  jx'ople 
did  say,  with  a  mysterious  shake  of  the  head, 
that,  handsome  as  she  was,  if  I  had  only  seen 
my  sister  two  or  three  years  ago !  Anil  Ange- 
line herself  became  tenacious  on  the  subject  of 
new  gowns,  and  did  not  like  it  to  be  generally 
known  whether  she  or  Charlotte  was  the  elder. 
(Jood,  jilain,  merry  Charlotte,  who  never  thought 
about  either  her  looks  or  her  age ! 

Yet  Charlotte  was  the  first  who  brought  me 
into  trouble — that  trouble  which  I  am  now 
called  upon  to  bemoan.     I  had  not  been  at 


A  FAMILY  IN  LOVE. 


97 


home  three  months  when  there  came  a  young 
pentleman — a  very  lively  and  pleasant  young 
gentleman,  too — who  sang  duets  with  the  youn- 
ger girls,  and  made  hims-elf  quite  at  home  in  my 
family  circle.  I  myself  did  not  much  meddle 
with  him,  thought  him  a  good-natured  lad,  and 
no  more — until  one  fine  morning  he  astonish- 
ed me  by  requesting  five  minutes'  conversation 
with  me  in  my  study.  (Alas!  such  misfor- 
tunes come  not  singly — my  study  has  never 
been  safe  from  similar  applications  and  conver- 
sations since.) 

I  was  very  kind  to  the  young  man  ;  when  he 
blushed,  I  looked  another  way  ;  when  he  trem- 
bled, I  invited  him  to  take  a  chiiir.  I  listened 
to  his  stammering  explanations  with  the  utmost 
patience  and  sympathy ;  I  even  tried  to  help 
him  out  with  them — till  he  came  to  the  last 
clause. 

Now,  I  do  say  that  a  man  who  asks  you  for 
your  purse,  your  horse,  your  friendship,  after 
only  four  weeks'  acquaintance,  has  considerable 
courage ;  but  a  man  who,  after  that  brief  period 
since  his  introduction,  comes  and  asks  you  for 
your  sister — why,  one's  first  impulse  is  to  kick 
him  down  stairs. 

Happily,  I  controlled  myself.  I  called  to 
mind  that  Mr.  Cuthbert  was  a  very  honest 
young  fellow,  and  that  if  he  did  choose  to  risk 
his  whole  future  upon  the  result  of  a  month's 
laughing,  and  singing,  and  dancing  at  balls — 
certainly  it  was  his  affair,  not  mine.  My  busi- 
ness solely  related  to  Charlotte.  I  was  just  dis- 
patching it  in  the  quickest  and  friendliest  man- 
ner, by  advising  the  young  fellow  to  go  back  to 
college  and  not  make  a  fool  of  himself  in  vain, 
when  he  informed  me  that  my  consent  only  was 
required,  since  he  and  Charlotte  had  been  a 
plighted  couple  for  the  space  of  tliree  whole 
days! 

I  have  always  held  certain  crotchets  on  the 
paramount  rights  of  lovers,  and  the  wrong  of 
interfering  with  any  apparently  sincere  vows: 
so  I  sent  for  Lotty — talked  with  her ;  found  slie 
was  just  as  foolish  as  he.  That  because  he 
Avas  the  best  waltzer,  the  sweetest  tenor  singer, 
and  had  the  handsomest  mustache  she  knew—  | 
our  lively  Charlotte  was  quite  'contented  to 
dance  through  life  with  Mr.  Cuthbert,  and  de-  ' 
cidedly  proud  of  having  his  diamond  ring  on  her 
third  finger,  and  being  considered  "engaged" 
— as  indeed  they  were  likely  to  remain,  if  their 
minds  changed  not,  for  the  next  ten  years. 

So,  Avhat  could  I  do  ?  Nothing  but  deal  i 
with  the  young  simpletons — if  such  they  were 
— according  to  their  folly.  If  true,  their  love 
would  have  time  to  prove  itself  such  ;  if  false, 
they  would  best  find  out  that  fact  by  its  not  be- 
ing thwarted.  I  kissed  away  Lotty's  tears, 
silly  child !  and  next  Sunday  I  had  the  honor 
of  carving  for  brother-in-law  elect  No.  2. 

It  never  rains  but  it  pours.  Whether  Ange- 
line  was  roused  at  once  to  indignation  and  con- 
descension by  Charlotte's  engagement — which 
she  was  the  loudest  in  inveighing  against — or 
whether,  as  was  afterward  reported  to  me,  she 
G 


was  influenced  by  a  certain  statistical  news- 
paper paragraph,  maliciously  read  aloud  by 
Mr.  Cuthbert  for  general  edification,  that  wo- 
men's chances  of  matrimony  were  proved  by  the 
late  census  to  diminish  greatly  between  tlie  ages 
of  thirty  and  thirty-five ;  but  most  assuredly 
Angeline's  demeanor  changed.  She  stooped  to 
be  agreeable  as  well  as  beautiful.  To  more 
than  one  suitor  whom  she  had  of  old  swept 
haughtily  by  did  she  now  graciously  incline ; 
and  the  result  was — partly  owing  to  the  gayeties 
of  this  autumn's  election — that  Miss  Angeline 
Heathcote,  the  beauty  of  the  county,  held  a 
general  election  on  her  own  private  account. 

Alas  for  me!  In  one  week  I  had  no  less 
than  four  hopeful  candidates  requesting  "the 
honor  of  an  interview"  in  my  study. 

Angeline's  decision  was  rather  dilatory — they 
were  all  such  excellent  matches;  and,  poor  girl 
— with  her  beauty  for  her  chief  gift,  and  with  all 
the  tinsel  adoration  it  brought  her — she  had 
never  been  used  to  think  of  marriage  as  any 
thing  more  than  a  mere  worldly  arrangement. 
She  was  ready  to  choose  a  husband  as  she  would 
a  wedding-gown — dispassionately,  carefully,  as 
the  best  out  of  a  large  selection  of  articles,  each 
rich  and  good  in  its  way,  and  warranted  to  wear. 
She  had  plenty  of  common  sense,  and  an  acute 
judgment ;   as  for  her  heart — 

"You  see,  Nigel,"  she  said  to  me,  when 
weighing  the  respective  claims  and  merits  of 
Mr.  Archer  and  Sir  Rowland  Griffith  Jones — 
"you  see,  I  never  was  sentimentally  inclined. 
I  want  to  be  married.  I  think  I  should  be  bet- 
ter married  than  single.  Of  course,  my  hus- 
band must  be  a  good  man ;  also,  he  should 
be  a  wealthy  man ;  because  —  well  I — because 
I  rather  like  show  and  splendor :  they  suit 
me." 

And  she  glanced  into  the  mirror  at  some- 
thing which,  certainly,  if  any  woman  has  any 
excuse  for  the  vanities  of  life,  might  have  plead- 
ed Angeline's. 

"But,"  I  argued — half  sorrowfully,  as  when 
you  see  an  ignorant  child  throwing  gold  away, 
and  choosing  sham  jewels  for  their  pitiful  glis- 
tering, "you  surely  would  think  it  necessary  to 
love  your  husband  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  and  I  like  Sir  Rowland  extremely 
— perhaps  even  better  than  Mr.  Archer — though 
fie  has  been  fond  of  me  so  long,  poor  fellow ! 
But  he  will  get  over  it — all  men  do." 

So,  though  the  balance  hung  for  a  whole 
week  doubtful — Heaven  forgive  the  girl !  but 
true  love  was  not  in  her  nature,  and  how  can 
people  see  further  than  their  lights  go? — I  \\as 
soon  pretty  certain  that  fate  would  decide  the 
marriage-question  in  favor  of  the  baronet.  As 
Lotty  said,  Angeline  would  look  magnificent  in 
the  family  diamonds  as  Lady  Griffith  Jones. 

The  Welsh  cause  triumphed ;  Mr.  Archer 
quitted  the  field.  He  had  been  an  old  ac- 
quaintance ;  but — what  was  that  to  Sir  Row- 
land and  X'10,()00  a  year? 

After  Angeline's  affair  was  settled,  there  came 
a  lull  in  the  family  epidemic — possibly  because 


98 


A  FAMILY  IN  LOVE. 


the  head  of  the  family  grew  savage  as  a  bear, 
and  for  a  full  month  his  sjiirit  hugged  itself  into 
fierce  misanthropy,  or  rather  misogyny,  con- 
temning the  whole  female  sex,  especially  such 
as  contemplated,  or  were  contemplated  in,  the 
«7iholy  estate  of  matrimony. 

No  wonder!  I  could  not  find  peace  in  my 
own  house ;  I  had  not  my  own  sisters'  society  ; 
not  a  single  family  fireside  evening  could  I  get 
from  week's  end  to  week's  end ;  not  a  room 
could  I  enter  witliout  breaking  in  on  some  tiite- 
a-tetc ;  not  a  corner  could  I  creep  into  without 
stumbling  upon  a  pair  of  lovers.  For  a  little 
while  these  fond  cou[)les  kept  on  their  good  be- 
havior toward  me — preserved  a  degree  of  re- 
serve toward  each  otlier  out  of  respect  to  the 
head  of  the  liouse,  the  elder  brother ;  but  grad- 
ually it  deteriorated — ceased.  Nay,  I,  who  be- 
long to  the  old  generation — which  was  foolish 
enough  to  deem  caresses  hallowed  things,  that 
the  mere  pressure  of  a  beloved  woman's  hand, 
not  to  s])eak  of  her  sacred  mouth,  was  a  thing 
not  to  be  made  a  public  show  of — never  to  be 
thought  of  without  a  tender  reverence,  adelicious 
fear — I,  Nigel  Heathcote,  have  actually  seen 
two  young  men,  strangers  a  little  year  ago,  kiss 
my  two  sisters  openly  before  their  whole  family 
— before  their  brother's  very  face ! 

Jly  situation  became  intolerable.  I  fled  the 
fireside  ;  I  took  refuge  in  my  study.  AVoe  be- 
tide the  next  lover  who  should  assail  me  there! 

Surely  that  fatality  would  not  again  arrive 
for  some  time.  When  the  elder  ones  were  once 
married  and  away,  surely  I,  and  Constantia, 
and  little  Lizzie,  might  live  a  few  years  in  fra- 
ternal peace,  unmolested  by  the  haunting  shad- 
ow of  impending  matrimony. 

It  occurred  to  me  that  in  the  interval  of  the 
weddings  I  would  send  for  an  old  friend,  a 
bachelor  like  myself — an  honest,  manly  fellow, 
who  worked  hard  from  circuit  to  circuit,  and 
got  barely  one  brief  a  year.  Yes,  Will  Launce- 
ston  would  keep  me  company ;  and  we  would 
spend  our  days  in  the  woods,  and  our  evenings 
in  my  study,  safe  out  of  the  way  of  lovers,  wed- 
dings, and  womankind. 

I  had  just  written  to  him,  when  my  sister 
Martha  came  in  with  a  very  serious  face,  and 
told  me  "she  wished  for  a  little  conversation 
with  me." 

Ominous  beginning !  But  she  was  not  a 
young  man,  and  could  not  well  attack  mc  con- 
cerning any  more  of  my  sisters.  At  least  so  I 
congratulated  myself — alas,  too  soon  ! 

My  sister  settled  herself  by  the  fire  with  a 
serious  countenance. 

"My  dear  Nigel." 

"My  dear  Martha." 

"I  wish  to  considt  you  on  a  matter  which 
his  recently  come  to  my  knowledge,  and  has 
given  me  much  pain  and  some  anxiety." 

"Indeed!"  and  I  am  afraid  my  tone  was 
liss  sympatlii/.ing  than  eager,  since  from  her 
troubled  neiwous  manner,  1  thought — I  hoped, 
the  matter  in  question  indicated  the  secession 
of. Mr.  Green.    "Goon.    IsitaLout" — I  stojjpcd 


and  corrected  myself  hvpocritically — "  about  the 
girls?" 

She  assented. 

"Whew!" — a  disappointed  whistle,  faint  and 
low.  "Still,  go  on.  I'll  listen  to  any  thing 
except  another  proposal." 

JIartha  sliook  her  head.  "Alas,  I  fear  it 
will  never  come  to  that !  Brother,  have  you  no- 
ticed ? — but  men  never  do — still,  I  myself  have 
observed  a  great  change  in  Constantia  lately." 

Now,  Constantia  always  was  diflercnt  from 
the  other  girls — liked  solitude  and  books,  talked 
little,  and  had  a  trick  of  reverie.  In  short,  was 
what  young  people  called  "interesting,"  and 
old  peojile  "romantic"  —  the  sort  of  creature 
who,  did  she  grow  up  a  remarkable  v.oman, 
would  have  her  youthful  peeuliaritics  carefully 
and  respectfully  noted,  with  "I  always  said 
there  was  a  great  deal  in  that  girl ;"  but  who, 
did  she  turn  out  nothing  particular,  woulil  be 
laughed  at,  and  probably  would  laugh  at  her- 
self, for  having  been  "very  sentimental  when 
she  was  young."  Nevertheless,  having  at  one 
time  of  my  life  shared  that  imjmtation,  I  was 
tender  over  the  little  follies  of  Constantia. 

"  I  think  the  girl  reads  too  much,  and  sits 
with  her  eyes  too  wide  open,  Martha;  is>ather 
unsocial,  likewise.  She  wanted  to  get  out  of 
the  way  of  the  weddings,  and  positively  refused 
to  be  Angeline's  bridesmaid." 

"Ah!"  sighed  Martha,  "that's  it.  Poor 
foolish  child,  to  think  of  falling  in  love — " 

I  almost  jumped  ofV  my  chair.  "I'll  not 
hear  a  woi'd  of  it — I  declare  I  will  not !  I'll 
keep  the  young  fellow  oflt'my  premises  with  man- 
traps and  sj)ring-guns.  I'll  go  back  to  India 
if  you  tell  me  of  another  "engagement." 

"No  chance  of  that;"  and  Martha  shook 
h?r  head  more  drearily  than  ever.  ' '  Poor  child, 
I  fear  it  is  an  unfortunate  attachment!" 

I  brightened  up — so  much  so,  that  my  sister 
looked,  nay,  gently  hinted,  her  conviction  that 
I  was  a  "  brute."  She  expected  I  would  have 
been  as  sorry  as  she  was  ! 

"No,  Martha;  I  am  rather  glad.  Glad,  aft- 
er my  experience  of  these  'fortunate'  love-af- 
fairs, to  find  that  one  of  my  sisters  has  the  wo- 
manly courage,  unselfishness,  and  simplicity  to 
conceive  an  '  unfortunate'  attachment." 

Perhaps  this  speech  hurt  Martha,  and  yet  it 
need  not.  She  and  I  both  knew  and  res])ected 
one  another's  youth  ;  and  if  we  differed  in  ojiin- 
ion  concerning  our  middle  age,  why,  I  was  as 
likely  to  be  wrong  as  she. 

She'  did  not  at  first  reply;  and  then,  without 
comment,  siic  explained  to  mc  her  uneasiness 
about  Constantia.  The  girl  had  long  played 
confidante  to  Mr.  Archer  in  the  matter  of  An- 
gelinc,  and,  as  often  happens,  the  confidante 
had  unwittingly  taken  too  great  interest  in  one 
of  her  i)riiHi|ials,  until  she  found  herself  envy- 
ing the  lot  of  the  other.  When  Mr.  Archer's 
dismissal  finally  broke  ofi"  all  his  intercourse 
with  our  family,  tliere  was  one  of  my  sisters  who 
missed  him  wearily,  cruelly  ;  and  that  was — not 
Angeline. 


A  FAMILY  IN  LOVE. 


90 


I  was  touclied.  Now,  no  doubt  Constantia 
had  been  very  foolish ;  no  doubt  she  had  nour- 
ished and  encouraged  this  fancy,  as  romantic 
girls  do,  in  moonlight  walks  and  solitary  dreams; 
hugging  her  pain,  and  deluding  herself  that  it 
was  bliss.  Little  doubt,  likewise,  that  the  feel- 
ing would  wear  itself  out,  or  fade  slowly  away 
in  life's  stern  truths  ;  but  at  present  it  was  a 
most  sincere  passion,  sad  and  sore.  Foolish  and 
romantic  as  it  mi.^ht  be,  in  itself  and  in  its  girl- 
ish demonstrations,  I  could  not  smile  at  it. 
It  was  a  real  thing,  and  as  such  to  be  re- 
spected. 

Martha  and  I  held  counsel  together,  and  act- 
ed on  the  result.  We  took  Constantia  under 
our  especial  charge  ;  we  gave  her  books  to  read, 
visits  to  pay,  work  to  do;  keeping  her  as  much 
as  possible  with  one  or  other  of  us,  and  out  of 
the  way  of  the  childish  flirtation  of  Cuthbert 
and  Charlotte,  or  the  formal  philandering  of 
Sir  Rowland  and  the  future  Lady  Griffith  Jones. 
And  if  sometimes,  as  Lizzie  told  me — my  little 
Lizzie,  who  laughed  at  love  and  lovers  with  the 
lightness  of  sixteen — Constantia  grew  impatient 
with  Lotty's  careless  trilling,  and  curled  her  lip 
scornfully  when  Angeline  paraded  the  splendors 
of  her  irovsscau,  we  tried  to  lead  the  girl's  mind 
out  of  herself,  and  out  of  dreamland  altogether, 
as  much  as  possible. 

"But  suppose,"  Lizzie  sagely  argued — "sup- 
pose, when  Angeline  is  married,  Mr.  Archer 
should  come  back  ?  He  always  liked  Constan- 
tia extremely.     Who  knows  but — " 

I  shook  my  head,  and  desired  the  little  cas- 
tle-builder to  hold  her  tongue. 

She  was  our  sole  sharer  of  the  secret ;  and  I 
must  say,  though  she  laughed  at  her  now  and 
then,  Lizzie  was  extremely  loving  and  patient 
with  Constantia.  After  a  time  we  left  the  two 
girls  Avholly  to  one  another,  more  especially 
as  my  time  was  now  taken  up  with  my  friend 
Launceston. 

Oh  the  comfort,  the  relief,  of  the  society  of  a 
man  ! — a  real  honest  man — who  had  some  ster- 
ling aim  and  object  in  life — some  steady  work 
to  do — some  earnest  interest  in  the  advance  of 
the  world,  the  duties  and  pursuits  of  his  brother 
men ;  who  was  neither  handsome,  witty,  nor  ac- 
complished ;  who  rarely  shone  in  ladies'  society ; 
in  fact,  rather  eschewed  it  than  otherwise.  For, 
he  said,  nature  had  unfitted  him  to  act  the  part 
of  a  mere  admirer,  and  adverse  fortune  forbade 
him  to  appear  in  the  character  of  a  lover ;  so  he 
held  aloof,  keejjing  his  own  company  and  that 
of  one  or  two  old  friends  like  myself. 

I  was  fond  of  Launceston ;  I  wished  my  fam- 
ily to  like  him  too ;  but  they  were  all  too  busy 
about  their  own  affairs.  Evening  after  evening, 
I  could  not  get  any  of  my  sisters  to  make  tea 
for  us,  or  give  us  a  little  music  afterward,  ex- 
cept the  pale,  dull-looking  Constantia,  or  my 
bonny  rose  of  June,  littie  Lizzie.  At  last,  we 
four  settled  into  a  small  daily  comparty,  and 
went  out  together,  read  together,  talked  together 
continually.  I  kept  these  two  younger  ones  as 
much  as  possible  in  our  unromautic  practical  so- 


ciety, that  not  only  my  mind,  but  Launceeton's, 
in  its  thorough  cheerfulness  and  healthiness  of 
tone,  might  unconsciously  have  a  good  influence 
ufjon  Constantia. 

The  girl's  spirit  slowly  began  to  heal.  She 
set  aside  ner  dreaming,  and  took  with  all  the 
energy  of  her  nature  to  active  work — women's 
work — charity-school  teaching,  village-visiting, 
and  the  like.  She  put  a  little  too  much  "ro- 
mance" into  all  she  did  still;  but  there  was  life 
in  it,  truth,  sincerity. 

"Miss  Constantia  will  make  an  admirable 
lady-of-all  work,"  said  Launceston,  in  his  quaint 
way,  watching  her  with  his  kindly  and  observ- 
ant eyes.  "  The  world  wants  such.  She  will 
find  enough  to  do." 

And  so  she  did  :  enough  to  steal  her  too  from 
my  side,  almost  as  much  as  the  three  fiancees. 
The  circle  in  my  study  dwindled  gradually  down 
to  Lizzie,  Launceston,  and  me. 

We  were  excellent  company  still,  we  three. 
I  had  rarely  had  so  much  of  my  pet  sister's  soci- 
ety ;  I  had  never  found  it  so  pleasant.  True, 
she  was  shyer  than  usual,  probably  from  being 
with  us  two,  older  and  wiser  people — men  like- 
wise— but  she  listened  to  our  wisdom  so  sweetly 
— she  bore  with  our  dry,  long-worded  learning 
so  patiently — that  my  study  never  seemed  itself 
unless  I  had  the  little  girl  seated  at  my  feet,  or 
sewing  quietly  in  the  window-corner.  And 
then  she  was  completely  a  "  little  girl ;"  had  no 
forward  ways — no  love  notions,  or,  ten  times 
worse,  marriage-notions,  crossing  her  innocent 
brain.  I  felt  sure  I  could  take  her  into  my 
closest  heart,  form  her  mind  and  principles  at 
my  will,  and  one  day  make  a  noble  woman  of 
her,  after  the  jattern  of —  But  I  never  men- 
tion tliat  sacred  name. 

I  loved  Lizzie — loved  her  to  the  core  of  my 
heart.  Sometimes  with  fatherly  more  than  even 
brotherly  pride,  I  used  to  talk  to  Launceston  of 
the  child's  sweetnesses,  but  he  always  gave  me 
short  answers.  It  was  his  way.  His  laconism 
in  most  things  was  really  astonishing,  for  a  man 
under  thirty. 

One  day,  when  Angeline's  grand  wedding 
was  safely  over,  and  the  house  had  sunk  into 
a  pathetic  quietness  that  reminded  one  of  the 
evening  after  a  funeral — at  least  so  I  thought — 
Launceston  and  I  fell  into  a  discussion,  which 
stirred  him  into  more  demonstrativeness  than 
usual.  The  subject  was  men,  women,  and 
marriages. 

"I  am  convinced,"  he  said,  "that  I  shall 
never  marry." 

It  was  not  my  first  hearing  of  this  laudable 
determination  ;  so  I  let  it  pass,  merely  asking 
his  reasons. 

"Because  my  conscience,  principles,  and 
feelings  go  totally  against  the  system  of  matri- 
mony, as  practiced  in  the  world,  especially  the 
world  of  womankind.  All  the  courting  and 
])roi)osing,  the  presents  and  the  love-letters,  the 
dinners  to  relatives  and  congratulations  of 
friends,  the  marriage-guests  ami  mariiage-set- 
tlcraents,  the  white  lace,  white  satin,  and  white 


100 


A  FAMILY  IN  LOVE. 


favors,  carriaj^e,  postillions,  and  all.  Heigh-ho, 
Heathcote,  what  fools  men  are  !" 

I  was  just  about  to  suggest  the  possibility  of 
naming  one,  say  two,  wise  individuals  among 
our  sex,  when  in  stole  a  white  fairy — my  pret- 
ty Lizzie,  in  her  bridesmaid's  dress.  Her  pres- 
ence changed  the  current  of  conversation  ;  until 
from  some  remark  sh?  made  about  a  message 
Angeline  had  left  as  to  the  proper  way  of  insert- 
ing her  marriage  in  the  Times  newspaper  to- 
morrow, our  talk  imperceptibly  fell  back  into 
the  old  channel. 

"  I,  like  you,  Launceston,  hate  the  whole 
system  of  love  and  maiTying.  It  is  one  great 
sham.  Beginning  when  miss,  at  school,  learns 
that  it  is  the  ai)ex  of  feminine  honor  to  be  a 
bride — the  lowest  deep  of  feminine  humiliation 
to  die  an  old  maid.  Continuing  when  she,  a 
young  lady  at  home,  counts  her  numerous 
'offers;'  taking  pride  in  what  ought  to  be  to 
her  a  source  either  of  regret  or  humiliation. 
Ending  when,  time  slip])ing  by,  she  drops  into 
the  usual  belief  that  nobody  ever  marries  her 
first  love  ;  so  takes  the  best  match  she  can  find, 
and  makes  marriage,  which  is  merely  the  visi- 
ble crown  and  completion  of  love,  the  pitiful 
dishonored  substitute  for  it.  I  declare  solemn- 
ly, I  have  seen  many  a  wife  whom  1  held  to  be 
scarcely  better  than  no  wife  at  all." 

I  had  forgotten  ray  little  sister's  presence  ; 
but  she  did  not  seem  to  hear  me — nor  Launces- 
ton either,  for  that  matter.  His  earnestness 
had  softened  down  ;  he  sat,  very  thoughtful, 
over  against  the  window  where  Lizzie  had 
taken  her  sewing.  What  a  pretty  picture  she 
made ! 

"Come  here,  my  little  girl,"  I  said;  "I 
should  not  like  thee  to  go  the  way  of  the  world  ; 
and  yet  I  should  be  satisfied  to  give  thee  away 
some  day,  quietly,  in  a  white  muslin  gown  and 
a  straw  bonnet,  to  some  honest  man  who  loved 
thee — and  was  loved  so  well,  that  Lizzie  would 
never  dream  of  marrying  any  other,  but  would 
have  been  quite  content,  if  need  be,  to  live  an 
old  maid  for  his  sake  to  the  end  of  her  days. 
That's  what  7  call  love — eh,  my  girl  ?" 

Lizzie  drooped  her  head,  blushing  deeply. 
Of  course  ;  girls  always  do. 

Launceston  said,  in  a  tone  so  low  that  I 
quite  started:  "Then  you  do  believe  in  true 
love,  after  all  ?" 

"  It  would  be  ill  for  me — or  for  any  human 
being — if  I  did  not.  And  I  believe  in  it  the 
more  earnestly  because  of  its  numberless  coun- 
terfeits. Nay" — and  now  when,  after  this  gay 
marriage-morning,  the  evening  was  sinking 
gray  and  dull,  my  mind  inclined  pensively,  even 
tenderly,  to  the  sister  who  had  gone,  the  other 
two  sisters  who  were  shortly  going  away  from 
my  hearth  forever — "  nay,  as  since  in  the 
falsest  creed  there  lurks,  I  hope,  a  modicum  of 
absolute  truth,  I  would  fain  trust  that  in  the 
poorest  travesty  or  masquerade  of  love,  one 
might  find  a  fragment  of  the  sterling  commod- 
ity. Still,  my  Lizzie  dear,  when  all  our  brides 
•re   gone,  let   us   congratulate   ourselves    that 


for  a  long  time  we  shall  have  no  more  en- 
gagements." 

"You  object  to  engagments?"  said  Lizzy, 
speaking  timidly  and  downfaced — as  I  rather 
like  to  see  a  young  girl  speak  on  this  subject. 

"Why,  how  should  you  like  it  yourself,  my 
little  maid?  To  be  loved,  wooed,  and  wedded, 
in  public,  for  the  benefit  of  an  amused  circle 
of  friends,  neighbors,  and  connections.  To 
have  one's  actions  noticed,  one's  affairs  can- 
vassed, one's  feelings  weighed  and  measured ; 
to  be  congratulated,  condoled,  and  jested  with. 
Horrible  !  literally  horrible  !  My  wonder  is 
that  any  true  lovers  can  ever  stand  it." 

"Perhaps  you  are  right,"  said  Launceston, 
vehemently.  "  No  man  ought  to  place  the  giil 
he  loves  in  such  a  position.  Whatever  it  costs 
him,  he  ought  to  leave  her  free — altoyetlier  free 
— and  ofi'cr  her  nothing  until  he  can  olfer  her 
his  hand,  at  once,  and  with  no  delay." 

"Bless  my  soul,  Launceston,  what  are  you 
in  such  excitement  about  ?  Has  any  body  been 
offering  himself  to  your  sister?  Because — you 
mistook  me.  Ask  her,  or  Lizzy,  or  any  good 
woman,  if  they  would  feel  flattered  by  a  gentle- 
man's acting  in  the  way  you  suggest  ?  As  if 
his  hand — with  the  ring  in  it — were  every  thing 
to  tliem,  and  himself  and  his  true  love  nothing 
at  all!" 

Launceston  laughed  uneasily.  "Well,  but 
what  did  you  mean  ?  A  friend  of  mine  would 
like  to  know  your  opinion  on  this  matter." 

"My opinion  is  simjily — an  opinion.  Every 
man  is  the  best  judge  of  his  own  affliirs,  c:- 
pecially  love-affairs.  As  the  Eastern  proverb 
says :  '  Let  not  the  lions  decide  for  the  tigers.' 
But  I  think,  did  /  love  a  woman"  (and  it 
pleased  me  to  know  I  was  but  speaking  out  fier 
mind  who  years  ago  lived  and  died,  in  her  fond 
simplicity  wiser  than  any  of  these) — "  did  I  love 
a  woman,  I  would  like  to  tell  her  so — ^just  to 
herself,  no  more.  I  would  like  to  give  her  my 
love  to  rest  on — to  receive  the  hcl))  and  conso- 
lation of  hers.  I  would  like  her  to  feel  that 
through  all  chances  and  changes  she  and  I  were 
one ;  one,  neither  for  foolish  child's-play  nor 
headlong  j)assion,  but  for  mutual  strength  and 
support,  holding  ourselves  responsible  both  to 
heaven  and  each  other  for  our  life  and  our  love. 
One,  indissolubly,  whether  we  were  ever  mar- 
ried or  not ;  one  in  tliis  world,  and — we  pray — 
one  in  the  world  everlasting." 

Was  I  dreaming?  Did  I  actually  see  my 
friend  Launccst»)n  take,  unforbidden,  my  youn- 
gest sister's  hand,  and  hold  it — firmly,  tenderly, 
fast?  Did  I  hear,  with  my  own  natural  ears, 
Lizzie's  soft  little  sob,  not  of  grief  certainly,  as 
she  sli]ij)ed  out  of  the  room,  as  swift  and  silent 
as  a  moonbeam  ? 

Eh  !  wliat  ?  Good  Heavens  !  Was  there 
ever  any  creature  so  blind  as  a  middle-aged 
elder  brother! 

Well,  as  I  told  Launceston,  it  was  half  my 
own  fixult;  and  I  must  bear  it  stoically.  Pcr- 
ha])s,  on  the  wiiole,  tbings  might  have  been 
worse,  for  he  is  a  noble  I'ciluw,  and  no  wonder 


A  LOW  MARRIAGE. 


101 


the  child  loves  him.  They  can  not  be  married 
just  yet  meanwhile  ;  Lizzie  and  I  keep  the 
matter  between  ourselves.  They  are  very 
happy — God  bless  them !  and  so  am  I. 


P.S.  —  Mr.  Archer  reappeared  yesterday — 
looking  quite  well  and  comfortable !  I  see 
clearly  that,  one  day  not  distant,  I  shall  be  left 
lamenting — the  solitary  residuum  of  a  Family 
in  Love. 


A  LOW   lARRIA&E. 


CHAPTER  I. 

Mrs.  Rochdale  st«od  a  good  while  talking 
at  the  school-gate  this  morning — Mrs.  Roch- 
dale, my  mistress  once,  my  friend  now.  My 
cousin,  the  village  schoolmisti'css,  was  bemoan- 
ing over  her  lad  George,  now  fighting  in  the 
Crimea,  saying,  poor  body,  "  that  no  one  could 
understand  her  feelings  but  a  mother — a  mother 
with  an  only  son." 

!Mrs.  Rochdale  smiled — that  peculiar  smile 
of  one  who  has  bought  peace  through  the  "  con- 
stant anguish  of  patience" — a  look  which  I  can 
still  trace  in  her  face  at  times,  and  which  I 
suppose  will  never  wholly  vanish  thence.  We 
changed  the  conversation,  and  she  shortly  after- 
ward departed. 

A  mother  with  an  only  son  !  All  the  neigh- 
borhood knew  the  story  of  our  Mrs.  Rochdale 
and  her  son  ;  but  it  had  long  ceased  to  be  dis- 
cussed, at  least  openly,  though  still  it  was  told 
under  the  seal  of  confidence  to  everj'  new-comer 
in  our  village.  And  still  every  summer  I  used 
to  see  any  strangers  who  occupied  my  cousin's 
lodgings  staring  with  all  their  eyes  when  the 
manor-house  cannage  passed  by,  or  peeping  from 
over  the  blinds  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  Mrs.  Roch- 
dale. 

No  wonder.  She  is,  both  to  look  at  and  to 
know,  a  woman  among  a  thousand. 

It  can  do  no  possible  harm — it  may  do  good 
—if  I  here  write  down  her  history. 

First  let  me  describe  her  who  even  yet  seems 
to  me  the  fairest  woman  I  ever  knew.  And 
why  should  not  a  woman  be  fair  at  sixty  ?  Be- 
cause the  beauty  that  lasts  till  then — and  it  can 
last,  for  I  have  seen  it — must  be  of  the  noblest 
and  most  satisfying  kind,  wholly  independent 
of  form  or  coloring ;  a  beauty  such  as  a  young 
%voman  can  by  no  art  attain,  but  which,  once 
attained,  no  woman  need  ever  fear  to  lose  till 
the  coffin-lid,  closing  over  its  last  and  loveliest 
smile,  makes  of  it  "a  joy  forever." 

Mrs.  Rochdale  was  tall — too  tall  in  youth — 
but  your  well-statured  women  have  decidedly 
the  advantage  after  forty.  Her  features,  more 
Boft  than  strong — looking  softer  still  under  the 
smooth-banded  gray  hair  —  might  have  Leeu 
good ;  I  am  no  artist — I  do  not  know.  But  it 
was  not  that ;  it  was  the  intangible,  nameless 
grace  which  surrounded  her  as  with  an  atmos- 


phere, making  her  presence  in  a  room  like 
light,  and  her  absence  like  its  loss ;  her  soft  but 
stately  courtesy  of  mien  in  word  and  motion 
alike  harmonious.  Silent,  her  gentle  ease  of 
manner  made  every  one  else  at  ease.  Speak- 
ing, though  she  was  by  no  means  a  great  talk- 
er, she  always  seemed  instinctively  to  say  just 
the  right  thing,  to  the  right  person,  at  the  right 
moment,  in  the  right  way.  She  stood  out 
distinct  from  all  your  "charming  creatures," 
"most  lady-like  persons,"  "very  talented  wo- 
men," as  that  rarest  species  of  the  whole  race 
— a  gentlewoman. 

At  twenty-three  she  liecame  Mr.  Rochdale's 
wife ;  at  twenty-five  his  widow.  From  that 
time  her  whole  life  was  devoted  to  the  son 
who,  at  a  twelvemonth  old,  was  already  Lem- 
uel Rochdale,  Esquire,  lord  of  the  manor  of 
Thorpe  and  Stretton-Magna,  owner  of  one  of 
the  largest  estates  in  the  county.  I'oor  little 
baby ! 

He  was  the  puniest,  sickliest  baby  she  ever 
saw,  I  have  heard  my  mother  say  ;  but  he  grew 
up  into  a  fine  boy  and  a  handsome  youth  ;  not 
unlike  Mrs.  Rochdale,  except  that  a  certain 
hereditary  pride  of  manner,  which  in  her  was 
almost  beautiful — if  any  pride  can  be  beautiful 
— was  in  him  exaggerated  to  self-assurance  and 
haughtiness.  He  was  the  principal  jierson  in 
the  establishment  while  he  yet  trundled  hoops ; 
and  long  before  he  discarded  jackets  had  as- 
sumed his  position  as  sole  master  of  the  manor- 
house —  allowing,  however,  his  mother  to  re- 
main as  sole  mistress. 

He  loved  her  very  much,  I  think — better  than 
horses,  dogs,  or  guns  ;  swore  she  was  the  kind- 
est and  dearest  mother  in  England,  and  hand- 
somer, ten  times  over,  than  any  girl  lie  knew. 

At  which  the  smiling  m.other  would  shake  her 
head  in  credulous  incredulousness.  She  rarely 
burdened  him  with  caresses  ;  perhaps  she  had 
found  out  early  that  boys  dislike  them — at  least 
he  did.  To  others  she  always  spoke  of  him  as 
"my  son,"  or  "  Mr.  Rochdale  ;"  and  her  pride 
in  him,  or  praise  of  him,  was  always  more  by 
implication  than  by  open  word.  Yet  all  the 
house,  all  the  village,  knew  quite  well  how 
things  were.  And  though  they  were  not  often 
seen  together,  except  on  Sundays,  when,  year 
.nfter  year,  she  walked  up  the  church-aisle, 
holding  her  little  son  by  the  hand ;  then,  fol- 


102 


A  LOW  MARRIAGE. 


lowed  by  the  sturdy  school-boy  ;  finally,  leiui- 
in'^  proudly  on  the  youth's  proud  arui — every 
body  said  emphatically  that  the  young  squire 
was  "his  mother's  own  son  ;"'  passionately  be- 
loved, after  the  fashion  of  women  ever  since 
yonng  Eve  smiled  down  on  Cain,  saying,  "  I 
have  gotten  a  man  from  the  Lord." 

So  he  grew  up  to  be  twenty-one  years  old. 

On  that  day  ^Irs.  Itochdale,  for  the  first  time 
since  her  widowhood,  opened  her  house,  and  in- 
vited all  the  country  round.  The  morning  was 
devoted  to  the  poorer  guests ;  in  the  evening 
there  was  a  dinner-party  and  ball. 

I  dressed  her,  having  since  my  girlhood  been 
to  her  a  sort  of  amateur  milliner  and  lady's- 
maid.  I  may  use  the  word  "amateur"  in  its 
strictest  sense,  since  it  was  out  of  tiie  great  love 
and  reverence  I  had  for  her  that  I  had  got  into 
this  habit  of  haunting  the  manor-house.  And 
since  love  begets  love,  and  we  always  feel  kind- 
ly to  those  we  have  been  kind  to,  Mrs.  Roch- 
dale was  fond  of  me.  Through  her  means,  and 
still  more  through  herself,  I  gained  a  better 
education  than  I  should  have  done  as  only  her 
bailitJ''s  daughter.  But  that  is  neither  here  nor 
there. 

Mrs.  Rochdale  was  standing  before  the  glass 
in  her  l)lack  velvet  gown — she  never  wore  any 
thing  but  black,  with  sometimes  a  gray  or  lilac 
ribbon.  She  had  taken  out  from  that  casket, 
and  was  clasping  on  her  arms  and  neck — white 
and  round  even  at  five-and-forty — some  long- 
unworn  family  jewels. 

I  admired  them  very  much. 

' '  Yes,  they  arc  ])retty  ;  but  I  scarcely  like  to 
gee  myself  in  diamonds,  Martha.  I  shall  only 
wear  them  a  few  times,  and  then  resign  them 
to  my  daughter-in-law." 

"Your  daughter-in-law?  lias  Mr.  Roch- 
dale—" 

"No"  (smiling),  "Mr.  Rochdale  has  not 
made  his  choice  yet,  but  I  hope  he  will  ere 
long.  A  young  man  should  nuirry  early,  es- 
pecially a  young  man  of  family  and  fortune.  I 
shall  be  very  glad  when  mv  son  has  chosen  his 
wife." 

She  spoke  as  if  she  thought  he  had  nothing 
to  do  but  to  choose,  after  the  fashion  of  kings 
and  sultans. 

I  smiled.  She  misinterpreted  my  thought, 
saying,  witli  some  little  severity: 

"  Martha,  you  mistake.  I  repeat,  I  shall  be 
altogether  glad,  even  if  such  a  chance  were  to 
ha])ijen  to-day." 

Ah,  Mrs.  IJochdalo,  was  ever  any  widowed 
mother  of  an  only  son  "  altogether  glad"  when 
first  startled  into  the  knowledge  that  she  her- 
self was  not  his  all  in  the  world  '?  that  some 
strange  woman  had  risen  ii]),  fur  whose  sake  he 
was  bound  to  "  leave  father  and  mother  and 
cleave  unto  his  wife?"  A  righteous  saying, 
but  hard  to  be  understood  at  first  by  the  moth- 
■  era. 

It  aftcnvard  struck  mc  as  an  odd  coincidence, 
that  what  Mrs.  Rochdale  had  wislied  might  haj)- 
pen  did  actually  hapjien  that  same  nigh:. 


The  jjrettiest,  and  beyond  all  question  the 
"sweetest,"  girl  in  all  our  county  families — 
among  which  alone  it  was  probable  or  permissi- 
ble that  our  young  squire  should  "throw  the 
handkerchief  —  was  Miss  Celandine  ChUde, 
niece  and  heiress  of  Sir  John  Childe.  I  was 
caught  by  her  somewhat  fanciful  name — after 
Wordsworth's  flower — which,  as  I  overheard 
Mrs.  Rochdale  say,  admirably  expressed  her. 

I  thought  so  too,  when,  peeping  through  the 
curtained  ballroom-door,  I  caught  sight  of  her, 
distinct  among  all  the  young  ladies,  as  one's  eye 
lights  upon  a  celandine  in  a  spring  meadow. 
She  was  smaller  than  any  lady  in  the  room — 
very  fair,  with  yellow  hair — the  only  real  gold 
hair  I  ever  saw.  Her  head  drooped  like  a  flow- 
er-cup ;  and  her  motions,  always  soft  and  quiet, 
reminded  one  of  the  stirrings  of  a  flower  in  the 
grass.  Her  dress — as  if  to  humor  the  fancy,  or 
else  Nature  herself  did  so  by  making  that  color 
most  suitable  to  the  girl's  complexion — was  some 
g.'vuzy  stuff,  of  a  soft  pale-green.  Bright,  deli- 
cate, innocent,  and  fair,  you  could  hardly  look 
at  her  without  wishing  to  take  her  up  in  your 
bosom  like  a  flower. 
^  The  ball  was  a  great  success.  !Mrs.  Rochdale 
came  up  to  her  dressing-room  long  after  mid- 
ni.;ht,  but  with  the  bright  glow  of  maternal  pride 
still  burning  on  her  cheeks.  She  looked  tjuite 
young  again,  forcing  one  to  acknowledge  the 
fact  constantly  avouched  by  the  elder  genera- 
tion, that  our  mothers  and  grandmothers  were  a 
great  deal  handsomer  than  we.  Certainly,  not 
a  belle  in  the  ballroom  could  compare  with  Mrs. 
Rochdale  in  my  eyes.  I  should  have  liked  to 
have  told  her  so.  In  a  vague  manner  I  said 
something  which  slightly  approximated  to  my 
thought. 

Mrs.  Rochdale  answered,  innocent  of  the  com- 
jiliiU'-nt,  "Yes,  I  have  seen  very  lovely  M'omen 
in  my  youth.  But  to-night  my  son  pointed  out 
several  whom  he  admired — one  in  particular." 

"Was  it  Miss  Childe,  madam?" 

"How  acute  you  are,  little  Martha!  How 
could  you  see  th.at?" 

I  answered,  rather  deprecatingly,  that  from 
the  corner  where  I  was  serving  ices,  I  had  heard 
several  i)eo]ilc  remark  JMr.  Rochdale's  great  at- 
tention to  Miss  Childe. 

"Indeed  !"  with  a  slight  sharpness  of  accent. 
A  moment  or  two  after  she  added,  with  some 
hauteur,  ' '  You  mistake,  my  dear ;  Mr.  Rochdale 
could  never  be  so  uncourteous  as  to  pay  exclu- 
sive attention  to  any  one  of  his  guests  ;  but  Miss 
Childe  is  a  stranger  in  the  neighborhood."  After 
a  pause:  "She  is  a  most  sweet-looking  girl. 
My  son  said  so  to  me,  and — I  perfectly  agreed 
with  him." 

I  let  the  subject  drop — nor  did  Mrs.  Roch- 
dale resume  it. 

A  month  after  I  wondered  if  she  knew  what 
all  the  servants  at  the  manor-house,  and  all  the 
villagers  at  Thorpe  soon  knew  quite  well,  and 
discussed  incessantly  in  butlers'  jmntries  and 
kitchens,  over  pots  of  ale  and  by  cottage-doofi 
— that  our  young  squire  from  that  day  forward 


A  LOW  MARRIAGE. 


103 


gave  up  his  shooting,  his  otter-hunting,  and 
even  his  coursing,  and  "  went  a-courtiug"  sed- 
ulously for  a  vi'hole  month  to  Ashen  Dale. 

Meanwhile  Sir  John  and  Miss  Childe  came 
twice  to  luncheon.  I  saw  her,  pretty  creature  ! 
walking  by  Mrs.  Rochdale's  side  to  feed  the 
swans,  and  looking  more  like  a  flower  than 
ever.  And  once,  stately  in  the  family-coach, 
which  tumbled  over  the  rough  roads,  two  hours 
there  and  two  hours  back,  shaking  the  old 
coachman  almost  to  pieces,  did  Mrs.  and  Mr. 
Rochdale  drive  over  to  a  formal  dinner  at  Ashen 
Dale. 

Finally,  in  the  Christmas-week,  after  an  in- 
terval of  twenty  lonely  Christmases  past  and 
gone,  did  our  lady  of  the  manor  prepare  to  pay 
to  the  same  place  a  three-days'  visit — such  as  is 
usual  among  county  f\imilies — the  "rest-day, 
the  pressed  day,"  and  the  day  of  departure. 

I  Avas  at  the  door  wlien  she  came  home.  Her 
usually  bright  iind  healthy  checks  were  some- 
what palu,  and  her  eyes  glittered  ;  but  her  eye- 
lids were  heavy,  as  with  long  pressing  back  of 
tears.  Mr.  Rochdale  did  not  drive,  but  sat 
beside  her ;  he  too  seemed  rather  grave.  He 
handed  her  out  of  the  carriage  carefully  and 
tenderly.  She  responded  with  a  fond  smile. 
Mother  and  son  went  up  the  broad  stair-case 
arm  in  arm. 

That  night  the  sen-ants  who  had  gone  to  Ash- 
en Dale  talked  "it"  all  over  with  the  servants 
who  had  staid  at  home  ;  and  every  point  was 
satisfactorily  settled,  down  to  the  bride's  fortune 
and  pin-money,  and  whether  she  would  be  mar- 
ried in  Brussels  or  Honiton  lace. 

Yet  still  Mrs.  Rochdale  said  nothing.  She 
looked  happy,  but  pale,  constantly  pale.  The 
squire  was  in  the  gayest  spirits  imaginable.  He 
was,  as  I  have  said,  a  very  handsome  and  win- 
ning youn  ,'  fellow  ;  rather  variable  in  his  tastes 
and  easily  guided,  some  people  said — but  then 
it  was  always  the  old  who  said  it,  and  nobody 
minded  them.  AVe  thought  Miss  Celandine 
Childe  was  the  hajipiest  and  luckiest  girl  imag- 
inable. 

She  looked  so  when,  after  due  time,  the 
three-days'  visit  was  returned ;  after  which  Sir 
John  departed,  and  Miss  Childe  staid  be- 
hind. 

That  evening — it  was  just  the  time  of  year 
when  "evenings"  begin  to  be  perceptible,  and 
in  passing  the  drawing-room  door  I  had  heard 
the  young  master  say  something  to  INIiss  Childe 
about  "primroses  in  the  woods" — that  evening 
I  was  waiting  upon  Mrs.  Rochdale's  toilet.  She 
herself  stood  at  the  oriel  window.  It  was  after 
dinner — she  had  come  up  to  her  room  to  rest. 

"  Look  here,  Martha." 

She  pointed  to  the  terrace-walk  leading  to 
the  pool.  There  were  the  two  young  people 
sauntering  slowly  past — he  gazing  down  on  her, 
she  with  her  eyes  drooped  low,  low,  to  the  very 
ground.  But  her  arm  rested  in  his,  in  a  safe, 
hap})y,  clinging  way,  as  knowing  it  had  a  right 
there  to  rest  forever. 

"It  is  so,  Mrs.  Rochdale?" 


"  Ay,  Martha.  What  do  you  think  of  ray — 
my  children?" 

A  few  tears  came  to  her  eyes — a  few  quivers 
fluttered  over  and  about  her  mouth ;  but  she 
gazed  still — she  smiled  still. 

"Are  you  satisfied,  madam ?" 

"  Quite.  It  is  the  happiest  thing  in  the  world 
— for  him.     They  will  be  married  at  Christmas." 

"  And  you— " 

She  put  her  hands  softly  on  my  lips,  and  said, 
smiling,  "Plenty  of  time  to  think  of  that — 
plenty  of  time." 

After  this  day  she  gradually  grew  less  pale, 
and  recovered  entirely  her  liealthy,  cheerful 
tone  of  mind.  It  was  evident  that  she  soon  be- 
gan to  love  her  daughter-elect  very  much — as 
indeed,  who  could  help  it? — and  that  by  no 
means  as  a  mere  matter  of  form  had  she  called 
them  both  "  my  children." 

For  Celandine,  who  had  never  known  a  moth- 
er, it  seemed  as  if  Mrs.  Rochdale  were  almost 
as  dear  to  her  as  her  betrothed.  The  two  ladies 
were  constantly  together ;  and  in  them  the  pro- 
verbially formidable  and  all  but  impossible  pos- 
sibility bade  fair  to  be  realized,  of  a  mother  and 
daughter-in-law  as  united  as  if  they  were  of  the 
same  flesh  and  blood. 

The  gossips  shook  their  heads  and  said,  "It 
wouldn't  last."  I  think  it  would.  Why  should 
it  not  ?  They  were  two  noble,  tender,  unselfish 
women.  Either  was  ready  to  love  any  thing 
he  loved — to  renounce  any  thing  to  make  him 
happy.  In  him,  the  lover  and  son,  was  their 
meeting-point,  in  him  they  learned  to  love  one 
another. 

Strange  that  women  can  not  always  see  this. 
Strange  that  a  girl  should  not,  above  all  but  her 
own  mother,  cling  to  the  mother  of  him  she 
loves — the  woman  who  has  borne  him,  nursed 
him,  cherished  him,  suftered  for  him  more  than 
any  living  creature  can  suffer,  excepting — ay, 
sometimes  not  even  excepting — his  wife.  Most 
strange,  that  a  mother,  who  woidd  be  fond  and 
kind  to  any  thing  her  boy  cared  for — his  horse 
or  his  dog — should  not,  above  all,  love  the  creat- 
ure he  loves  best  in  the  world,  on  whom  his 
happiness,  honor,  and  peace  are  staked  for  a 
lifetime.  Alas,  that  a  bond  so  simple,  natural, 
holy,  should  be  found  so  hard  as  to  be  almost 
impossible — even  among  the  good  women  of 
this  world  !  Mothers,  wives,  whose  fault  is  it? 
Is  it  because  each  exacts  too  much  for  herself, 
and  too  little  for  the  other — one  forgetting  that 
she  was  ever  young,  the  other  that  she  will  one 
day  be  old?  Or  that  in  the  tenderest  woman's 
devotion  lurks  a  something  of  jealousy,  which 
blinds  them  to  the  truth — as  true  in  love  as  in 
charity — that  "  it  is  more  blessed  to  gij'e  than  to 
receive?"  Perhaps  I,  Martha  Stretton,  spin- 
ster, have  no  right  to  discuss  this  question. 
But  one  thing  I  will  say :  that  I  can  forgive 
much  to  an  unloved  daughter-in-law — to  an  un- 
loving one  nothin;/. 

And  now,  frcjm  this  long  digression — which 
is  not  so  iiTclevant  as  it  at  first  may  seem — let 
me  return  to  my  story. 


104 


A  LOW  MAERIAGE. 


The  year  grew-  and  waned.     Mrs.  Rochdale  [ 
said  to  me,  when  it  was  near  its  closing,  that  it 
had  been  one  of  the  happiest  years  she  had  ever 
known.  i 

I  believe  it  was.  The  more  so  as,  like  many 
a  season  of  great  hai)piness,  it  began  with  a  con- 
quered pang.  But  of  this  no  one  ever  dared  to 
hint ;  and  perhaps  the  mother  now  would  liardly 
have  acknowledged,  even  to  herself,  that  it  bad 
temporarily  existed. 


CHAPTER  II. 


The  young  people  were  to  have  been  married 
at  Christmas  ;  but  early  in  December  the  long- 
invalided  Lady  Childc  died.  This  deferred  the 
wedding.  The  lover  said,  loudly  and  often, 
that  it  was  "very  hard."  The  bride-elect  said 
nothing  at  all.  Consequently  every  lady's- 
maid  and  woman-servant  at  the  manor-house, 
and  every  damsel  down  tlic  village,  talked  over 
Miss  Ciiilde's  hard-heartedness ;  especially  as, 
soon  after,  she  went  traveling  with  poor  broken- 
liearted  Sir  John  Childe,  tliereby  parting  with 
liL-r  betrothed  for  three  whole  months. 

But  I  myself  watched  her  about  the  manor- 
house  the  last  few  days  before  she  went  away. 
Oil,  Lemuel  Rochdale,  what  had  you  deserved, 
that  Heaven  should  bless  you  with  the  love  of 
two  such  women — mother  and  bride  ! 

Celandine  went  away.  The  manor-house 
was  verj'  dull  after  she  was  gone.  Mrs.  Roch- 
dale said  she  did  not  wonder  that  her  son  was 
absent  a  good  deal — it  was  natural.  But  this 
she  only  said  to  me.  To  others,  she  never  took 
any  notice  of  his  absence  at  all. 

These  absences  continued — lengthened.  In 
most  young  men  they  would  have  been  unre- 
marked ;  but  Lemuel  was  so  fondly  attached  to 
bis  mother  that  he  rarely  in  his  life  had  spent 
Ills  evenings  away  from  home  and  her.  Now, 
iu  tiie  wild  March  nights,  in  the  soft  April  twi- 
ligiits,  in  the  May  moonlights,  Mrs.  Rochdale 
s;t  alone  in  tiie  great  drawing-room,  where 
they  had  sat  so  happily  last  year — all  three  of 
them. 

Siie  sat,  grave  and  quiet,  over  her  book  or 
lier  knitting,  still  saying — if  she  ever  said  any 
thing — tliat  it  was  quite  "natural"  her  son 
shoulil  amuse  himself  aliroad. 

Once  I  heard  her  ask  him,  "Where  he  had 
been  to-night?" 

lie  hesitated;  then  said,  "Up  the  village, 
mother." 

"  What,  a;;aiu  ?  How  fond  you  are  of  moon- 
liglit  walks  up  tlie  village  !" 

"Am  I  ?"  whipping  his  Imots  witli  his  cane. 

"Why,  motlKT,  moonlight  is — very  jiretty, 
you  know  ;  and  the  evenings  here  are — so  long." 

"True."  His  mothiT  half  sighed.  "But 
soon,  you  know.  Celandine  will  be  back." 

It  might  iiave  been  my  mistake,  but  I  thought 
the  young  man  turned  scarlet,  as,  whistling  his 
dog,  he  hastily  quitted  the  room. 


"How  sensitive  these  lovers  are!"  said  Mrs. 
Roclidale,  smiling.  "He  can  hardly  bear  to 
hear  her  name.     I  do  wish  they  were  married." 

But  that  wish  was  still  further  deferred.  Sir 
John  Childe,  fretful,  ailing,  begged  another  six 
months  before  he  lost  his  niece.  They  were 
young ;  and  he  was  old,  and  had  not  long  to 
live.  Besides,  thus  safely  and  happily  betrothed, 
why  should  they  not  wait  ?  A  year  more  or  less 
was  of  little  moment  to  those  who  were  bound 
togctlier  firm  and  sure,  in  good  and  ill,  for  a 
lifetime.  Nay,  did  she  not  from  the  very  day 
of  her  betrothal  feel  herself  Lemuel's  faithful 
wife  ? 

Thus,  JNIrs.  Rochdale  told  me,  did  Celandine 
urge — out  of  the  love  w  Inch  in  its  completeness 
hardly  recognized  such  a  thing  as  separation. 
Her  mother  that  was  to  be,  reading  the  passage 
out  of  her  letter,  paused,  silenced  by  starting 
tears. 

The  lover  consented  to  this  further  delay.  He 
did  not  once  say  that  it  was  ' '  very  hard."  Again 
]\Irs.  Rochdale  began  to  talk,  but  with  a  tone 
of  fainter  certainty,  about  their  being  married 
next  Christmas. 

Meanwhile  the  young  squire  a])peared  quite 
satisfied ;  shot,  fished,  lounged  about  his  prop- 
erty as  usual,  and  kept  up  his  spirits  amazingly. 

He  likewise  took  his  moonlight  walks  up  the 
village  with  creditable  persistency.  Once  or 
twice  I  heard  it  whispered  about  that  he  did  not 
take  them  alone. 

But  every  one  in  the  neighborhood  so  liked 
the  young  squire,  and  so  tenderly  honored  his 
mother,  that  it  was  some  time  before  the  faint- 
est of  these  ill  whispers  reached  the  ear  of  Mrs. 
Rochdale. 

I  never  shall  forget  the  day  she  heard  it. 

She  had  sent  for  me  to  help  her  in  gathering 
her  grajjes ;  a  thing  she  often  liked  to  do  her- 
self, giving  the  choice  bunches  to  her  own  friends, 
and  to  the  sick  pocr  of  Iier  neighbors.  She 
was  standing  in  the  vinery  when  I  came.  One 
moment's  glance  showed  me  something  was 
amiss,  but  she  stopped  the  question  ere  it  was 
well  out  of  my  lijjs. 

"No,  nothing,  Martha.  This  bunch — cut  it 
while  I  hold  it." 

But  lier  hand  shook  so  tliat  the  grapes  fell 
and  were  crushed,  dyeing  purple  the  stone  floor. 
I  jiickcd  them  uj) — she  took  no  notice. 

Suddenly  she  jMit  her  hand  to  her  head.  "I 
am  tired.     We  will  do  this  another  day." 

I  followed  her  across  the  garden  to  the  liall- 
door.  Entering,  she  gave  orders  to  have  the 
carriage  ready  immediately. 

"I  will  take  you  home,  Martha.  I  am  go- 
ing to  the  village." 

Now  the  village  was  about  two  miles  distant 
from  the  manor-house — a  mere  cluster  of  cot- 
tages ;  among  which  were  only  three  decent 
dwellings — the  butcher's,  the  baker's,  and  the 
school -house.  Mrs.  Rochdale  rarely  drove 
through  Thorpe — still  more  rarely  did  she  stop 
there. 

She  stopped  now — it  was  some  message  at 


A  LOW  MAKRIAGE. 


105 


the  school-house.  Then,  addressing  the  coach- 
man— 

"  Drive  on^ — to  the  baker's  sliop." 

Old  John  started — touched  his  hat  hurriedly. 
I  saw  him  and  the  footman  whispering  on  the 
box.     Well  I  could  guess  why ! 

"The  baker's,  Mrs.  Rochdale?  Can  not  I 
call  ?  Indeed,  it  is  a  pity  you  should  take  that 
trouble." 

She  looked  me  full  in  the  face ;  I  felt  myself 
turn  crimson. 

"Thank  vou,  Martha  ;  but  I  wish  to  go  my- 
self." 

I  ceased.  But  I  was  now  quite  certain  she 
knew,  and  guessed  I  knew  also,  that  which  all 
the  village  were  now  talking  about.  What  could 
be  her  motive  for  acting  thus  ?  Was  it  to  show 
her  own  ignorance  of  the  report  ?  No,  that 
would  have  been  to  imply  a  falsehood  ;  and 
Mrs.  Rochdale  was  stanchly,  absolutely  true  in 
deed  as  in  word.  Or  was  it  to  prove  them  all 
liars  and  scandal-mongers,  that  the  lady  of  the 
manor  drove  up  openly  to  the  very  door  where — 

Mrs.  Rochdale  startled  me  from  my  thoughts 
with  her  sudden  voice,  sharp  and  clear. 

"He  is  a  decent  man,  I  believe.  Hine,  the 
baker?" 

"Yes,  madam." 

"  He  has — a  daughter,  who — waits  in  the 
sliop  ?" 

"  Yes,  madam." 

She  pulled  the  check-string  with  a  quick  jerk, 
and  got  out.  Two  small  burning  spots  were 
on  either  cheek ;  otherwise  she  looked  herself — 
her  tall,  calm,  stately  self. 

I  wondered  what  Nancy  thought  of  her  — 
handsome  Nancy  Hine,  who  was  laughing  in 
her  free  loud  way  behind  the  counter,  but  who, 
perceiving  the  manor-house  carriage,  stopped, 
startled. 

I  could  see  them  quite  plainly  through  the 
shop-window — the  baker's  daughter  and  the 
mother  of  the  young  squire.  I  could  see  the 
very  glitter  in  Mrs.  Rochdale's  eyes,  as,  giving 
in  her  ordinary  tone  some  domestic  order,  she 
took  the  opportunity  of  gazing  steadily  at  the 
large,  well-featured  girl,  who  stood  awkward 
and  painfully  abashed,  nay,  blushing  scarlet ; 
though  people  did  say  that  Nancy  Hine  was  too 
clever  a  girl  to  have  blushed  since  she  was  out 
of  her  teens. 

I  think  they  belied  her — I  think  many  people 
belied  her,  both  then  and  aftenvard.  She  was 
"clever" — much  cleverer  than  most  girls  of  her 
station ;  she  looked  bold  and  determined  enough, 
but  neither  unscrupulous  nor  insincere. 

During  the  interview,  which  did  not  last  two 
minutes,  I  thought  it  best  to  stay  outside  the 
door.  Of  course,  when  Mrs.  Rochdale  re-en- 
tered the  carriage,  I  made  no  remark.  Nor 
did  she. 

She  gave  me  the  cake  for  the  school-children. 
From  the  wicket  I  watched  her  drive  oil',  just 
catching  through  the  carriage-window  her  pro- 
file, so  proudly  cut,  so  delicate  and  refined. 

That  a  young  man^  born  and  reared  of  such 


a  mother,  with  a  lovely  fair  creature  like  Celan- 
dine for  his  own,  his  very  own,  could  ever  lower 
his  tastes,  habits,  percejitions,  to  court — jieople 
said  even  to  win — unlawfully,  a  common  village- 
girl,  handsome,  indeed,  but  with  the  coarse 
blowsy  beauty  which  at  thirty  might  be  positive 
ugliness — surely — surely  it  was  impossible !  It 
could  not  be  true  what  they  said  about  young 
Mr.  Rochdale  and  Nancy  Hine. 

I  did  not  think  his  mother  believed  it  either; 
if  she  had,  could  she  have  driven  aw  ay  with  that 
quiet  smile  on  her  mouth,  left  by  her  last  kind 
words  to  the  school-children  and  to  me? 

The  yoimg  squire  had  gone  to  Scotland  the 
day  before  this  incident  occurred.  He  did  not 
seem  in  any  hurry  to  return  ;  not  even  when, 
by  some  whim  of  the  old  baronet's,  Sir  John 
Childe  and  his  niece  suddenly  returned  to 
Ashen  Dale. 

Mrs.  Rochdale  drove  over  there  immediately, 
and  brought  Celandine  back  with  her.  The 
twoJadies,  elder  and  younger,  were  gladly  seen 
by  us  all  going  about  together  in  their  old  liaj:- 
py  ways,  lingering  in  the  green-house,  driv- 
ing and  walking,  lau;,hing  their  well-known 
merry  laugh  when  they  fed  the  swans  cf  an 
evening  in  the  pool. 

There  might  have  been  no  such  things  in 
the  world  as  tale-bearers,  slanderers,  or — bakers' 
daughters. 

Alas  !  this  was  only  for  four  bright  days — 
the  last  days  when  I  ever  saw  j\Irs.  Rochdale 
looking  li.app}'  and  young,  or  Celandine  Chikle 
light-hearted  and  bewitchingly  fair. 

On  the  fifth.  Sir  John  Childc's  coach  drove 
up  to  the  manor-house,  not  lazily,  as  it  gener- 
ally did,  but  with  ominously  thundering  wheels. 
He  and  Mrs.  Rochdale  were  shut  up  in  the 
library  for  two  full  hours.  Then  she  came  out, 
walking  heavily,  with  a  kind  of  mechanical 
strength,  but  never  once  drooping  her  head  or 
her  eyes,  and  desired  me  to  go  and  look  for 
Miss  Childe,  who  was  reading  in  the  summer- 
house.  She  waited  at  the  hall-door  till  the 
3'oung  lady  came  in. 

"Mamma!"  Already. she  had  begun,  by 
Mrs.  Rochdale's  wish,  to  give  her  that  fond 
name.     But  it  seemed  to  strike  painfully  now. 

"Mamma,  is  any  thing  the  matter?"  and, 
turning  pale,  the  girl  clung  to  her  arm. 

"Nothing  to  alarm  you,  my  pet;  nothing 
that  I  care  for — not  I.  I  know  it  is  false — 
wholly  false  ;  it  could  not  but  be."  Her  tone, 
wann  with  excitement,  had  nevertheless  more 
anger  in  it  than  fear.  Celandine's  color  re- 
turned. 

"  If  it  be  false,  mamma,  never  mind  it,"  she 
said,  in  her  fondling  way.  "But  ^\hat  is  this 
news  ?" 

"  Something  that  your  imcle  has  heard. 
Something  he  insists  upon  telling  you.  Let 
him.  It  can  not  matter  either  to  you  or  to  me. 
Come,  my  child." 

What  passed  in  the  library  of  course  never 
transjjired  ;  but  about  an  hour  after  I  was  sent 
for  to  Mrs.  Rochdale's  dressing-room. 


106 


A  LOW  MARRIAGE. 


She  sat  at  her  writing-table.  There  was  a 
firm,  hard,  almost  fierce  expression  in  her  eyes, 
verv  painful  to  see.  Yet  when  Celandine  glided 
in,  with  that  soft  step  and  white  face,  Mrs. 
Rochdale  looked  up  with  a  quick  smile. 

"Has  he  read  it?  Is  he  satisfied  with  it?" 
and  she  took,  Avith  painfully  assumed  careless- 
ness, a  letter  newly  written,  which  Miss  Childe 
brought  to  her. 

The  girl  assented ;  then,  kneelin.;  by  the 
table,  i>ressed  her  cheek  upon  Mrs.  Rochdale's 
shoulder. 

"Let  mc  write,  mamma,  just  one  little  line, 
to  tell  him  that  I — that  I  don't  believe — " 

"Hush I"  and  the  trembling  lips  were  shut 
with  a  kiss  tender  as  firm.  "  No  ;  not  a  line, 
my  little  girl.  I,  his  mother,  may  speak  of 
such  things  to  him.     Not  you." 

It  did  at  the  moment  seem  to  me  almost 
sickening  that  tliis  pure  fragile  flower  of  a  girl 
should  ever  have  been  told  there  existed  such 
wickedness  as  that  of  which  not  only  Sir  John 
Childe,  but  the  #a^e  neighborhood  now  ac- 
cused her  lover ;  and  whiih,  as  I  afterward 
learned,  the  baronet  insisted  should  be  at  once 
openly  and  explicitly  denied  by  Mr.  Rochdale, 
or  the  engagement  must  be  held  dissolved. 

This  question  his  mother  claimed  her  own 
sole  right  to  put  to  her  son  ;  and  she  liad  jiut 
it  in  the  letter,  which  now,  with  a  steady  hand 
and  a  fixed  smile  —  half-contemptuous  as  it 
were — she  was  sealing  and  directing. 

"  Martha,  put  this  into  the  post-bag  your- 
self; and  tell  Miss  Childe's  maid  her  mistress 
will  remain  another  week  at  the  manor-house. 
Yes,  my  love,  best  so." 

Then,  sitting  down  wearily  in  the  large  arm- 
chair, I\Irs.  Rochdale  drew  Celandine  to  her ; 
and  I  saw  her  take  the  soft  small  figure  on  licr 
lap,  like  a  child,  and  fold  her  up  close  in  the 
grave,  comforting  silence  of  inex])ressiblc  love. 

It  was  a  four-days'  post  to  and  from  the  moors 
where  Mr.  Rochdale  was  staying.  Heavily  the 
time  must  have  passed  with  those  two  poor  wo- 
men, whose  all  was  staked  upon  him — upoii 
his  one  little  "yes"  or  "no." 

Sunday  intervened,  when  they  both  a]>peareu 
at  church — evening  as  well  as  morning.  With 
this  excej)tion,  they  did  not  go  out ;  and  were 
seen  but  rarely  about  tlie  house,  except  at  din- 
ner-time. Then,  with  her  companion  on  her 
arm,  Mrs.  Rochdale  would  walk  down,  and  take 
lier  seat  at  the  foot  of  the  long  dreary  diniiig- 
table,  jilacing  Miss  Childe  on  her  right  hand. 

The  old  butler  said  it  made  his  heart  ache  to 
see  how  sometimes  they  both  looked  toward  the 
liead  of  the  board — at  the  em])ty  chair  there. 

The  fifth  day  came  and  passed.  Ko  letters. 
The  sixth  likew  ise.  In  the  evening,  his  mother 
ordered  Mr.  Roclidale's  chamber  to  be  got  ready, 
a.s  it  was  "  not  im])robable"  he  might  unex- 
pectedly come  home.     IJut  he  did  not  come. 

They  sat  up  half  that  niglit,  1  believe,  both 
Mrs.  Rochilalc  and  Miss  Childe. 

Next  morning  tiicy  breakfasted  to;.'ether  as 
nsuul  in  the  dressing-room.     As  I  crossed  the 


plantation — for  in  my  anxiety  I  made  business 
at  the  manor-house  every  day  now — I  saw  them 
both  sitting  at  the  window,  waiting  for  the  post. 

Waiting  for  the  post !  Many  a  one  has 
known  that  heart-sickening  intolerable  time ; 
but  few  waitings  have  been  like  to  theirs. 

The  stable-boy  came  lazily  up,  swinging  the 
letter-bag  to  and  fro  in  his  hands.  They  saw 
it  from  the  window. 

The  butler  unlocked  the  bag  as  usual,  and 
distributed  the  contents. 

"  Here's  one  from  the  young  master.  Lord 
bless  us,  what  a  big  un!" 

"Let  me  take  it  up  stairs,  William."  For 
I  saw  it  was  addi'essed  to  Miss  Childe. 

Mechanically,  as  I  went  up  stairs,  my  eye 
rested  on  the  direction,  in  Mr.  Rochdale's  large 
careless  hand  ;  and  on  the  seal,  firm  and  clear, 
bearing  not  the  sentimental  devices  he  had  once 
been  fond  of  using,  but  his  business  seal — his 
coat-of-arms.  With  a  heavy  weight  on  my 
heart,  I  knocked  at  the  dressing-room  door. 

Miss  Childe  opened  it. 

"All,  mamma,  forme,  for  ?«e  .'"  And  with 
a  sob  of  joy  she  caught  and  tore  open  the  large 
envelope. 

Out  of  it  fell  a  heap  of  letters — her  own  pret- 
ty, dainty  letters — addressed  "Lemuel  lioch- 
dale,  Esq." 

She  stood  looking  down  at  them  with  a  be- 
wildered air,  then  searched  through  the  envel- 
ope.    It  was  blank — (juite  blank. 

'^W/tat  does  he  mean,  mamma?  I — don't 
— understand." 

But  Mrs.  Rochdale  did.  "Go  away,  Mar- 
tha," she  said,  hoarsely,  shutting  me  out  at  the 
door.  And  then  I  heard  a  smothered  cry,  and 
something  falling  to  the  floor  like  a  stone. 


CHAPTER  III. 

The  Ladies  did  not  appear  at  lunch.  Word 
was  sent  down  stairs  that  Miss  Childe  was  "in- 
disposed." I  could  not  by  any  means  get  to 
see  Mrs.  Rochdale,  though  I  hung  about  the 
house  all  day.  Near  dark  I  received  a  message 
that  the  mistress  wanted  me. 

She  was  sitting  in  tlie  dining-room  without 
lights.  She  sat  as  quiet,  as  motionless  as  a 
carved  figure?  I  dared  not  speak  to  her ;  I 
trembled  to  catch  the  first  sound  of  her  voice — 
my  friend,  mv  mistress,  my  dear  Mrs.  Roch- 
da'le ! 

"Martha!" 

"  Yes,  madam." 

"  I  wish,  Martha — "  and  tlicre  the  voice 
stopped. 

I  hardly  know  what  prevented  my  saying  or 
doing,  on  the  impulse,  tilings  that  the  com- 
monest instinct  told  me,  the  moment  afterward, 
ought  to  be  said  and  done  by  no  one — certainly 
not  jjy  me — at  this  (  risis,  to  .Mrs.  liochdale.  So, 
with  an  ell'ort,  1  stood  silent  in  the  dim  light — 
as  silent  and  motionless  as  herself. 


A  LOW  MARKIAGE. 


107 


"  I  wish,  Martha"— and  her  voice  was  steady 
now — "  I  wish  to  send  you  on  a  message,  which 
requires  some  one  whom  I  can  implicitly  trust." 

My  heart  was  at  my  lips ;  but,  of  course,  I 
only  said,  "Yes,  madam." 

' '  I  want  you  to  go  down  to  the  village  to  the 
— the — young  person  at  the  baker's  shop." 

"Nancy  Hine." 

"Is  that  her  name?  Yes,  I  remember ;  Nan- 
cy Hine.  Bring  her  here — to  the  manor-house ; 
without  observation,  if  you  can." 

"  To-night,  madam  ?" 

"To-night.  Make  any  excuse  you  choose; 
or,  rather,  make  no  excuse  at  all.  Say  Mrs. 
Rochdale  wishes  to  sjjcak  to  her." 

"Any  thing  more?"  I  asked,  softly,  after  a 
considerable  pause. 

"Nothing  more.     Go  at  once,  Martha." 

I  obeyed  implicitly.  Much  as  this,  my  mis- 
sion, had  surprised,  nay,  startled  me,  I  knew 
Mrs.  Rochdale  always  did  what  was  wisest,  best 
to  do  under  the  circumstances.  Also,  that  her 
combined  directness  of  purpose  and  strength  of 
character  often  led  her  to  do  things  utterly  un- 
thought  of  by  a  weaker  or  less  single-hearted 
woman. 

Though  a  misty  September  moonlight,  I  walk- 
ed blindly  on  in  search  of  Nancy  Hine. 

She  was  having  a  lively  gossip  at  the  bake- 
house door.  The  fii-e  showed  her  figure  plain- 
ly. Her  large,  rosy  aPms.  whitened  with  flour, 
were  crossed  over  her  decent  working-gown. 
People  allov/ed  —  even  the  most  censorious  — 
that  Nancy  was,  in  her  own  home,  an  active, 
industrious  lass,  though  too  much  given  to  dress 
of  Sundays,  and  holding  herself  rather  above 
her  station  every  day. 

"Nancy  Hine,  I  want  to  speak  with  you  a 
minute." 

"Oh!  do  you,  Martha  Stretton ?  Speak  out, 
then.     No  secrets  here." 

Her  caixjless,  not  to  say  rude,  manner  irri- 
tated me.  I  just  turned  away  and  walked  down 
the  village.  I  had  not  gone  many  yai-ds  when 
Nancy's  hand  was  on  my  shoulder,  and,  with  a 
loud  laugh  at  my  sudden  start,  she  pulled  me, 
by  a  back  door,  into  the  shop. 

"  Now,  then  ?" 

The  baker's  daughter  folded  her  arms  in  a 
rather  defiant  way.  Her  eyes  were  bright  and 
open.  There  was  in  her  manner  some  excite- 
ment, coarseness,  and  boldness;  but  nothing  un- 
virtuous — nothing  to  mark  the  fallen  girl  whom 
her  neighbors  were  j;ointing  the  finger  at.  I 
could  not  loathe  her  quite  as  much  as  I  had  in- 
tended. 

"Now,  then?"  she  repeated. 

I  delivered  Mrs.  Rochdale's  message  word 
for  word. 

Nancy  seemed  a  good  deal  surprised — not 
shocked,  or  alarmed,  or  ashamed — merely  sur- 
prised. 

' '  Wants  me,  does  she  ?     Why  ?" 

"  She  did  not  say." 

"  But  vou  guess,  of  course.  Well,  who  cares  ? 
Not  I."  ' 


Yet  her  brown,  handsome  ii^ce  changed  color. 
Her  hands  nervously  fidgeted  about,  taking  off 
her  apron,  "  making  herself  decent,"  as  she  call- 
ed it.      Suddenly  she  stopped. 

"  Has  there  been  any  letter — any  news — from 
young  Mr.  Rochdale?" 

"  I  believe  there  has ;  but  that  is  no  business 
of—" 

"Mine,  you  mean,  eh?  Come,  don't  be  so 
sharp,  IMartha  Stretton.  I'll  go  with  you,  only 
let  me  put  on  my  best  bonnet  first." 

"Nancy  Hine,"  I  burst  out,  "do  you  think 
it  can  matter  to  Mrs.  Rochdale  whether  you  go 
in  a  queen's  gown  or  a  beggar's  rags,  except 
that  the  rags  might  suit  you  best  ?  Come  as 
you  are." 

"I  will,"  cried  Nancy,  glaring  in  my  face; 
"and  you,  Martha,  keep  a  civil  tongue,  will 
you?  My  father's  daughter  is  as  good  as  you, 
or  your  mistress  either.  Get  out  of  the  shop. 
I'll  follow  'ee.     I  bean't  afeard !" 

That  broad  accent,  broadening  as  she  got 
angry !  those  abrupt,  awkward  gestures !  what 
could  the  young  squire,  his  mother's  son,  who 
had  lived  with  that  dear  mother  all  his  days, 
have  seen  attractive  in  Nancy  Hine  ? 

But  similar  anomalies  of  taste  have  puzzled, 
and  will  puzzle,  every  body — especially  women, 
who  in  their  attachments  generally  see  clearer 
and  deeper  than  men — to  the  end  of  time. 

Nancy  Hine  walked  in  sullen  taciturnity  to 
the  manor-house.  It  was  already  late — nearly 
all  the  household  were  gone  to  bed.  I  left  the 
young  woman  in  the  hall,  and  went  up  to  Mrs. 
Rochdale. 

She  was  sitting  before  her  dressing-room  fire 
absorbed  in  thought.  In  the  chamber  close  by 
— in  the  large  state-bed  which  JNIrs.  Rochdale 
always  occupied,  where  generationsof  Rochdales 
had  been  born  and  died — slept  the  gentle  girl 
whose  hap]iiness  had  been  so  cruelly  betrayed. 
For  that  the  engagement  was  broken,  and  for 
sufiicient  cause,  Mr.  Rochdale's  answer,  or  rath- 
er non-answer,  to  his  mother's  plain  letter  made 
now  certain,  almost  beyond  a  doubt. 

"Hush;  don't  wake  her,"  whispered  Mrs. 
Rochdale,  hurriedly.      "Well,  Martha?" 

' '  The  young  woman — shall  I  bring  her,  ma- 
dam ?" 

"What!  here?"  Words  can  not  describe 
the  look  of  repulsion,  hatred,  horror,  which  for 
a  moment  darkened  Mrs.  Rochdale's  face.  Per- 
haps the  noblest  human  being,  either  man  or 
woman,  is  born,  not  passionless,  but  with  strong 
passions  to  be  subjected  to  firm  will.  If  at  tliat 
moment — one  passing  moment — she  could  have 
crushed  out  of  existence  the  girl  w  ho  had  led 
away  her  son — (for  Nancy  was  older  tliau  he, 
and  "no  fool") — I  think  Mrs.  Rochdale  would 
have  done  it. 

The  next  instant  slie  would  have  done  no- 
thing of  the  kind ;  nothing  that  a  generous 
Christian  woman  might  not  do. 

She  rose  up,  saying,  quietly,  "  The  young  per- 
son can  not  come  here,  Martha.  Bring  her 
into — let  me  sec — into  tlic  drawing-room. 


108 


A  LOW  MARRIAGE. 


There,  entering  a  few  minutes  after,  we  found 
Mrs.  Rochdale  seated  on  one  of  the  velvet  couch- 
es, just  in  the  light  of  the  chandelier. 

I  do  not  suppose  Nancy  Hine  had  ever  been 
in  such  a  brilliant,  beautiful  room  before.  She 
was  ajijiarently  quite  stunned  and  dazzled  by  it ; 
courtesied  humbly,  and  stood  with  her  aims 
wrapped  up  in  her  shawl,  vacantly  gazing  about 
her. 

Mrs.  Rochdale  spoke.  "Nancy  Hine,  I  be- 
lieve, is  your  name  ?" 

"Yes.  my  lady.  That  is — um — yes,  ma'am, 
my  name  is  Nancy." 

She  came  a  little  forwarder  now,  and  lifted 
up  her  eyes  more  boldly  to  the  sofa.  In  fact, 
they  l)uth  regarded  each  other  keenly  and  long 
— the  lady  of  the  manor  and  the  village  girl. 

I  observed  that  Mrs.  Rochdale  had  resumed 
her  usual  evening-dress,  and  that  no  trace  of 
mental  disorder  was  visible  in  her  apparel — 
scarcely  even  in  her  countenance. 

"I  sent  for  you,  Nancy  Hine — (^lartha,  do 
not  go  away,  I  wish  that  there  should  be  a  wit- 
ness to  all  that  passes  between  this  young  wo- 
man and  myself) — I  sent  for  you  on  account  of 
certain  reports,  more  injurious  to  your  charac- 
ter, if  possible,  than  even  to  that  of — the  other 
person.     Are  you  aware  what  reports  I  mean  ?" 

"Yes,  my  lady,  I  be." 

"  That  is  an  honest  answer,  and  I  like  hon- 
esty," said  Mrs.  Rochdale,  after  a  prolonged 
gaze  at  tlie  face,  now  scarlet  with  wholesome 
blushes,  of  the  baker's  daughter.  With  a  half- 
sigh  of  relief,  she  went  on. 

"  You  must  also  be  aware  that  I,  as  the  moth- 
er of — that  other  person,  can  have  but  one  mo- 
tive in  sending  for  you  here — namel}',  to  ask  a 
question  which  I  more  than  any  one  else  have 
a  ri;4lit  to  ask,  and  to  have  answered.  Do  you 
understand  me  ?" 

"  Some'at." 

"Nancy,"  she  resumed,  after  another  long 
gaze,  as  if  struck  by  something  in  the  young 
woman  ditferent  from  what  she  had  expected, 
and  led  tjicreby  to  address  her  differently  from 
wJKit  she  had  at  first  intended — "Nancy,  I  will 
b,;  plain  with  you.  It  is  not  every  lady — every 
mother,  wlio  would  have  spoken  with  you  as  I 
speak  now,  witliout  anger  or  blame — only  wish- 
ing to  get  from  you  the  truth.  If  I  believed  the 
worst — if  you  were  a  poor  girl  whom  my  son 
had — had  wronged,  I  would  still  have  jjitied 
you.  Knowing  liini  and  now  looking  at  you,  I 
do  not  believe  it.  I  believe  you  may  have  been 
foolish,  light  of  conduct ;  but  not  guilty.  Tell 
me — do  tell  me'' — and  tlic  mother's  agony  broke 
tlinmgli  tlie  lady's  calm  and  dignilied  demeanor 
— "one  word  to  assure  me  it  is  so !" 

IJut  Nancy  Hine  did  not  utter  that  word.  She 
gave  a  little  faint  sob,  and  then  drofipcd  her 
Jiead  with  a  troubled  awkward  air,  as  if  the  i)res- 
cncc  of  Lemuel's  mother — speaking  so  kindly, 
and  looking  her  through  and  through,  was  more 
than  she  could  l)(>ar. 

That  jioor  mother,  whom  this  last  hope  had 
failed,  to  whom  her  only  son  now  ajiijcared  not 


only  as  a  promise-breaker,  but  the  systematic 
seducer  of  a  girl  beneath  his  own  rank — between 
whom  and  himself  could  exist  no  mental  union, 
no  false  gloss  of  sentiment  to  cover  the  foulness 
of  mere  sensual  passion — that  poor  mother  sank 
back,  and  put  her  hand  over  her  eyes,  as  if  she 
would  fain  henceforth  shut  out  from  her  sight 
the  whole  world. 

After  a  while  she  forced  herself  to  look  at 
the  girl  once  more — who,  now  recovering  frcm 
her  momentary  remorse,  was  busy  casting  ad- 
miring glances,  accomjianied  with  one  or  two 
curious  smiles,  around  the  drawing-room. 

"From  your  silence,  young  woman,  1  must 
conclude  that  I  was  mistaken  ;  that — but  I  will 
s])are  you.  Y'ou  will  h.avc  enough  to  suffer. 
There  now  remains  only  one  question  wliich  I 
desire — which  I  am  comi)elled — to  ask:  How 
long  has  this — this"  she  seemed  to  choke  over 
the  unuttered  word — "  lasted?" 

"  Dunnot  know  what  you  mean." 

"I  must  sjfcak  plainer,  then.  How  long, 
Nancy  Hine,  have  you  been  .my  son's — Mr. 
Rochdale's — mistress  ?" 

"  Not  a  d.ay — not  an  hour,"  cried  Nancy,  vio- 
lently, coming  close  to  the  sofii.  "Mind  what 
you  say,  Mrs.  Rochdale.  I'm  an  honest  girl. 
I'm  as  good  as  you.     I'm  Mr.  Rochdale's  irifcJ'' 

Mr.  Rochdale's  mother  sat  mute,  and  watch- 
ed the  girl  take  from  a  ribbon  round  her  neck  a 
ring — an  unmistakable  wedding-ring,  and  sli])  it 
with  a  determined  push  on  her  large  working- 
woman's  finger.  This  done,  she  thrust  it  right 
in  the  lady's  sight. 

"Look'ee,  what  do  'ce  say  to  that?  He  put 
it  there.  All  your  anger  can  not  take  it  off.  I 
am  Mrs.  Lemuel  Rochdale,  your  son's  wife." 

"Ah!"  sin-inking  from  her.  But  the  next 
minute  the  true  womanly  feeling  came  into  the 
virtuous  mother's  heart.  "Better  this — than 
— what  they  said.  Better  a  thousand  times. 
Thank  God." 

With  a  sigh,  long  and  deep,  she  sat  down, 
and  again  covered  her  eyes,  as  if  trying  to  realize 
the  amazing — impossible  truth.  Then  she  said, 
slowly,  "Martha,  I  think  this" — she  hesitated 
what  name  to  give  Nancy  ;  finally  gave  no  name 
at  all — "I  think  she  had  better  go  away." 

Nancy,  quite  awed  and  moved — all  her  bold- 
ness gone — was  creei)ing  out  of  the  room  after 
me  when  Mrs.  Rochdale  called  us  back. 

"Stay;  at  this  hour  of  the  night  it  is  not 
fitting  that — my  son's  wife — shoidd  be  out  alone. 
Martha,  ask  your  father  to  see  her  safe  home." 

The  baker's  daughter  turned  at  the  door,  and 
said,  "Thank'ee,  my  lady;"  but  omitted  her 
courtesy  this  time. 

And  Mrs.  Rochdale  had  found  her  daughter- 
in-law  ! 


CHAPTER   IV. 

Erk  wc  knew  what  had  happened  the  whole 
dynasty  at  the  manor-house  was  changed.  Mrs. 
Rochdale  was  gone  ;  she  left  before  her  son  re- 


A  LOW  MARRIAGE. 


109 


turned  from  Scotland,  and  did  not  once  see 
him.  Mrs.  Lemuel  Rochdale,  late  Nancy  Hine, 
was  installed  as  lady  of  the  manor. 

Such  a  theme  for  gossip  had  not  been  vouch- 
\ /sated  our  countr}'  for  a  hundred  years.     Of  a 
'  surety  they  canvassed  it  over — talked  it  literally 
threadbare. 

I\Irs.  Rochdale  escaped  it  fortunately.  She 
went  abroad  with  Sir  John  and  Miss  Childe. 
All  the  popular  voice  was  with  her  and  against 
her  son.  They  said  he  had  killed  that  pfetty 
gentle  creature — who,  however,  did  not  die, 
but  lived  to  suffer — perhaps  better  still,  to  over- 
come suffering ;  that  he  had  broken  his  noble 
mother's  heart.  Few  of  his  old  fiiends  visited 
him ;  not  one  of  their  wives  visited  his  wife. 
He  had  done  that  wliich  many  "respectable" 
people  are  more  shocked  at  than  any  species  of 
profligacy — he  had  made  a  low  marriage. 

Society  was  harder  upon  him,  harder  than  he 
deserved.  At  least,  they  despised  him  and  his 
marriage  for  the  wrong  cause.  Not  because  his 
wife  was,  when  he  chose  her,  a  woman  thor- 
oughly beneath  him  in  education,  tastes,  and 
feelings — because  from  this  inferiority  it  was 
impossible  he  could  have  felt  for  her  any  save 
the  lowest  and  most  degrading  kind  of  love — 
but  simply  because  she  was  a  village  girl — a 
baker's  daughter. 

Sir  John  Childe  said  to  Lemuel's  mother,  in 
a  lofty  compassion,  the  only  time  he  was  ever 
known  to  refer  to  the  humiliating  and  miserable 
occurrence:  "Madam,  whatever  herself  might 
have  been,  the  disgrace  Avould  have  been  light- 
ened had  your  son  not  married  a  person  of  such 
low  origin.      Shocking  ! — a  baker's  daughter." 

"  Sir  John,"  said  Mrs.  Rochdale,  with  dignity, 
"if  my  son  had  chosen  a  woman  suitable  and 
worthy  of  being  his  wife,  I  would  not  have 
minded  had  she  been  the  daughter  of  the  mean- 
est laborer  in  the  land." 


CHAPTER  V. 


"  Miss  Martha  !"  called  out  our  rector's  wife 
to  me  one  day,  "is  it  true,  that  talk  I  hear  of 
Mrs.  Rochdale's  coming  home?" 

"  Quite  true,  I  believe." 

"And  where  will  she  come  to?  Not  to  the 
manor-house  ?" 

"  Certainly  not."  I  fear  there  was  a  bitter- 
ness in  my  tone,  for  the  good  old  lady  looked  at 
me  reprovingly. 

"  My  dear,  the  right  thing  for  us  in  this  world 
is  to  make  the  very  best  of  that  whith,  having 
happened,  was  consequently  ordained  by  Provi- 
dence to  happen.  And  we  often  find  the  worst 
things  not  so  bad,  after  all.  I  was  truly  glad 
to-day  to  hear  that  Mrs.  Rochdale  was  coming 
home." 

"  But  not  home  to  them — not  to  the  manor- 
house.  She  will  take  a  house  in  the  village. 
She  will  never  meet  them,  any  more  than  when 
she  was  abroad." 


"  But  she  will  hear  of  them.  That  docs  great 
good  sometimes." 

"When  there  is  any  good  to  be  heard." 
"I  have  told  you,  Martha,  and  I  hope  you 
have  told  Mrs.  Rochdale,  that  there  is  good. 
When  first  I  called  on  Mrs.  Lemuel,  it  was 
simply  in  my  character  as  the  clergyman's  wife, 
doing  what  I  believed  my  duty.  I  found  that 
duty  easier  than  I  expected." 

"Because  she  remembered  her  position" — 
("Her  former  position,  my  dear,"  corrected 
Mrs.  Wood) — "  because  she  showed  off  no  airs 
and  graces,  but  was  quiet,  humble,  and  thank- 
ful, as  became  her,  for  the  kindness  you  thus 
showed." 

"Because  of  that,  and  something  more.  Be- 
cause the  more  I  have  seen  of  her  the  more  I 
feel,  that  though  not  exactly  to  be  liked,  she  is 
to  be  respected.  She  has  sustained  tolerably 
well  a  most  difficult  part — that  of  an  ignorant 
person  suddenly  raised  to  wealth  ;  envied  and 
abused  by  her  former  class,  utterly  scouted  and 
despised  by  her  present  one.  She  has  had  to 
learn  to  comport  herself  as  mistress  where  she 
Mas  once  an  equal,  and  as  an  equal  where  she 
used  to  be  an  inferior.  I  can  hardly  imagine 
a  greater  trial  as  regards  social  position." 

"Position?  She  has  none.  No  ladies 
eAC0])t  yourself  will  visit  her.  Why  should 
they  ?" 

"My  dear,  why  should  they  not?  A  wo- 
man who  since  her  marriage  has  conducted  her- 
self with  perfect  pro})riet3',  befitting  the  sphere 
to  which  she  was  raised  ;  has  lived  retired,  and 
forced  herself  into  no  one's  notice ;  who  is, 
wliatever  be  her  shortcomings  in  education  and 
refinement  of  character,  a  good  wife,  a  kind 
mistress — " 

"  How  do  you  know  that?" 
"  Simply  because  her  husband  is  rarelv  ab- 
sent a  day  from  home  ;  because  all  her  servants 
have  remained  with  her,  and  spoken  well  of  her, 
these  five  years." 

I  could  not  deny  these  facts.  They  were 
known  to  the  whole  neighborhood.  The  proud- 
est of  our  gentry  were  not  wicked  enough  to 
shut  their  eyes  to  them,  even  when  they  con- 
temptuously stared  at  Mrs.  Lemuel  Rochdale 
driving  drearily  about  on  long  summer  after- 
noons in  her  lonely  carriage,  with  not  a  single 
female  friend  to  pay  a  morning  visit  to,  or  sufler 
the  like  infliction  from ;  not  even  at  church, 
when,  quizzing  her  large  figure  and  heavy  gait 
—  for  she  had  not  become  more  sylph-like 
with  added  years — they  said  she  was  growing 
"crumbie,"  like  her  father's  loaves,  and  won- 
dered she  would  persist  in  wearing  the  finest 
bonnets  in  all  the  congregation. 

Nay,  even  I,  bitter  as  I  was,  really  ])itied  her 
one  sacrament  day,  when  she  unwittingly  ad- 
vanced to  the  first  "rail"  of  communicants, 
upon  which  all  the  other  "respectable"  Chris^ 
tians  hung  back  till  the  second.  After  that, 
the  Rochdales  were  not  seen  again  at  the  com- 
munion.     Who  could  marvel  ? 

It  was  noticed  —  by  some   to  his  credit,  by 


110 


A  LOW  MARRIAGE. 


others  as  a  point  for  ridicule — that  her  husband 
always  treated  her,  abroad  and  at  home,  witli 
respect  and  consideration.  Several  times  a  few 
huutiny;  ncij^hbors,  lunchini;  at  tlie  manor- 
house,  brouglit  word  how  ]Mrs.  Lemuel  Roch- 
dale had  taken  the  mistress's  place  at  table,  in 
a  grave,  taciturn  way,  so  that  perforce  every 
one  had  to  forget  entirely  that  he  had  ever  joked 
and  laughed  over  her  father's  counter  with  the 
ci-dcvaut  Nancy  Hine. 

For  that  honest  old  father,  he  had  soon  ceased 
to  give  any  trouble  to  his  aristocratic  son-in- 
law,  having  died  quietly — in  a  comfortable  and 
honorable  bedroom  at  the  manor-house,  too — 
and  been  buried  underneath  an  eciunlly  com- 
fortable and  honorable  head-stone  to  the  mem- 
ory of  "Mr.  Daniel  Hine  ;"  "baker"  was  omit- 
ted, to  the  fireat  indignation  of  ourviUagc,  who 
thought  that,  if  a  tradesman  could  "carry  no- 
thing" else,  he  ought  at  least  to  cany  the  stig- 
ma of  his  trade  out  witli  him  into  the  next 
world. 

Mrs.  Rochdale  came  home  to  the  only  house 
in  the  neighborhood  which  could  be  found  suit- 
able. It  was  a  little  distance  from  the  village, 
and  three  miles  from  tlie  manor-house,  ilany, 
I  believe,  wished  her  to  settle  in  some  other 
part  of  the  country ;  but  she  briefly  said  that 
she  "])rcferred"  living  here. 

Her  jointure  and  an  additional  allowance 
from  the  estate,  which  was  fully  and  regularly 
paid  by  my  father — still  Mr.  Rochdale's  stew- 
ard— was,  I  believe,  the  only  link  of  association 
between  her  and  her  former  home.  Nor  did  she, 
apparently,  seek  for  more.  The  only  jiossible 
or  pro])able  chance  of  her  meeting  the  inhabit- 
ants of  tlie  manor-house  was  at  Thorpe  Church ; 
and  she  attended  a  chapel-of-ease  in  the  next 
parish,  which  was,  as  she  said,  "nearei\"  She 
fell  into  lu'r  old  habits  of  charity — her  old  sim- 
ple life ;  aiul  though  her  means  were  much  re- 
duced, every  one,  far  and  near,  vied  in  showing 
her  attention  and  respect. 

But  Mrs.  Rochdale  did  not  look  hapjjy.  Siie 
had  grown  much  older  —  was  decidedly  "an 
elderly  lady"  now.  Instead  of  her  fair,  calm 
aspect,  was  a  certain  unquiet  air,  a  perjjetual 
looking  and  longing  for  something  she  did  not 
find.  For  weeks  after  she  came  to  her  new 
house  she  would  start  at  strange  knocks,  and 
gaze  eagerly  after  strange  horsemen  i)assing  the 
window,  as  if  she  thought,  "  he  vui^  come  to 
see  his  mother."  But  he  did  not;  and  after  a 
time  she  setth'd  down  into  the  patient  dignity 
of  hoijcless  jjain. 

Many  peojjle  said,  because  Lemuel's  name 
was  never  heard  on  her  lijjs,  that  slie  cherished 
an  implacable  resentment  toward  him.  That, 
I  thought  was  not  true.  She  miglit  have  found 
it  hard  to  forgive  him — most  motiiers  would  ; 
fcut  did  any  mother  ever  find  any  pardon  im- 
possible ? 

She  had  still  his  boyish  portrait  hanging  he- 
side  his  father's  in  her  bedroom;  and  once, 
opening  by  chance  a  drawer  usually  kejit  locked, 
I  found  it  contained — what?     Lemuel's  child- 


ish muslin  frocks,  his  boyish  cloth  cap,  his  fish- 
ing-rod, and  an  old  book  of  flies. 

After  tliat,  who  could  believe  his  mother 
"  imjdacable  ?" 

Yet  she  certainly  was  a  great  deal  harder  than 
she  used  to  be ;  harsher  and  quicker  in  her 
judgments  ;  more  unforgiving  of  little  faults  in 
those  about  her.  "With  regard  to  her  son,  her 
mind  was  absolutely  impenetrable.  She  seem- 
ed to  have  fortified  and  intrenched  herself  be- 
hind a  strong  endurance  ;  it  would  take  a  heavy 
stroke  to  reach  the  citadel — the  poor  desolate 
citadel  of  the  forlorn  mother's  heart. 

The  stroke  fell.  None  can  doubt  \^Tio  sent 
it,  nor  why  it  came. 

Mrs.  Rochdale  was  standing  at  the  school- 
house  door,  when  my  cousin's  lad,  George,  who 
had  been  to  see  the  hunt  ])ass,  ran  hastily  in. 

"Oh!  motlier,  the  squire's  thrown  and  kill- 
ed." 

"  Killed  !"  Oh,  that  shriek !  May  I  never 
live  to  hear  such  another ! 

The  tale,  we  soon  found,  was  incorrect ;  Mr. 
Rochdale  had  only  been  stunned,  and  seriously 
injured,  though  not  mortally.  But — his  poor 
mother ! 


CHAPTER  VI. 

For  an  hour  she  lay  on  the  school-house 
floor,  quite  rigid.  AVe  tliouglit  she  would  never 
wake  again.  When  she  did,  and  we  slowly 
made  her  understand  that  things  were  not  as 
fatal  as  she  feared,  she  seemed  liardly  able  to 
take  in  the  consolation. 

"My  bonnet,  Martha,  my  bonnet!  I  must 
go  to  him."     But  she  could  not  even  stand. 

I  sent  for  my  father.  He  came,  bringing 
with  him  Dr.  Hall,  who  had  just  left  ^Mr.  Itoch- 
dale. 

Our  doctor  was  a  good  man,  whom  every 
body  trusted.  At  sight  of  him,  Jlrs.  Rochdale 
sat  iij)  and  li.ncnod — we  all  listened ;  no  attempt 
at  cold  or  jiolite  disguises  now — to  his  account 
of  the  accident.  It  was  a  sinq)le  fracture,  cura- 
ble by  a  few  weeks  of  perfect  quiet  and  care. 

"Above  all,  my  dear  nunlam,  quiet,'' — for 
the  doctor  luid  seen  ]\Irs.  Rochdale's  nervous 
fastening  of  her  cloak,  and  her  quick  glance  at 
the  door.  "  I  would  not  answer  for  the  results 
of  even  ten  minutes'  mental  agitation." 

Mrs.  Rochdale  comprehended.  A  spasm, 
.sharp  and  keen,  crossed  tiie  nnlia))i)y  mother's 
face.      With  a  momentary  ])ride  she  drew  back. 

"I  assure  you.  Dr.  Hall,  I  had  no — that  is, 
I  have  already  clianged  my  intention." 

Then  she  leaned  back,  closed  her  eyes  and 
licr  quivering  mouth — fast — fast ! — folded  (juiet- 
ly  her  useless  hands;  and  seemed  as  if  trying 
to  commit  her  son,  patiently  and  unrepining, 
into  the  care  of  the  only  Healer — He  "who 
woundeth,  and  His  lianus  make  whoie."    ' 

At  last  she  asked  suddenly,  "Wlio  is  with 
him?" 

"His  wife,"  said  Dr.  HaH,  without  hesitation. 


A  LOW  MAEEIAGE. 


Ill 


"  She  is  a.  good  and  tender  nurse  ;  and  he  is 
fond  of  lier." 

Mrs.  Rochdale  was  silent. 

Shortly  afterward  she  went  home  in  Dr.  Hall's 
carriage  ;  and  by  her  own  wish  I  left  her  there 
alone. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Aftek  that  dreadful  day,  every  night  and 
»  morning  for  five  days  I  went  up  to  the  manor- 
house,  and  back  again  to  Mrs.  Rochdale's  cot- 
tage, bringing  tidings,  and  hearing  the  further 
report,  never  missed,  which  came  to  her  through 
Dr.  Hall.  It  was  almost  always  favorable  ;  yet 
the  agony  of  tliat  "almost"  seemed  to  stretch 
the  mother's  powers  of  endurance  to  their  ut- 
most limit — at  times  her  face,  in  its  stolid  fixed 
quietness,  had  an  expression  half-insane. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  of  the  sixth  day — it 
was  a  rainy  December  Sunda}',  and  scarcely  any 
one  thought  of  stirring  out  but  me — I  was  just 
considering  whether  it  was  not  time  to  go  to 
Mrs.  Rochdale's,  when  some  person,  hooded  and 
cloaked,  came  up  the  path  to  our  door.  It  was 
herself 

"Martha,  I  w-ant  you.  No,  thank  you;  I 
will  not  come  in." 

Yet  she  leaned  a  minute  against  the  dripping 
veranda,  pale  and  breathless. 

"Are  you  afraid  of  taking  a  walk  with  me  in 
this  rain — a  long  walk?  No?  Then  put  on 
your  shawl  and  come." 

Though  this  was  all  she  said,  and  I  made  no 
attempt  to  question  her  further,  still  I  knew  as 
well  as  if  she  had  told  me  where  she  was  going. 
We  went  through  miry  lanes,  and  soaking  woods, 
where  the  partridges  started  up — whirring  across 
sunk  fences,  and  under  gloomy  fir-plantations, 
till  at  last  we  came  out  opposite  the  m.inor- 
house.  It  looked  just  the  same  as  in  old  times, 
save  that  there  were  no  peacocks  on  the  terrace, 
and  the  sw^ans  now  never  came  near  the  house 
— no  one  fed  or  noticed  them. 

"IMartha,  do  you  see  that  light  in  my  win- 
dow?    Oh,  my  poor  boy !" 

She  gasped,  struggled  for  breath,  leaned  on 
my  arm  a  minute,  and  then  went  steadily  up, 
and  rang  the  hall-bell. 

"I  believe  there  is  a  new  servant;  he  may 
not  know  you,  Mrs.  Rochdale ;"  I  said,  to  pre- 
pare her. 

But  she  needed  no  preparation.  She  asked 
in  the  quietest  way — as  if  paying  an  ordinary 
call — for  "Mrs.  Lemuel  Rochdale." 

"  Mistress  is  gone  to  lie  down,  ma'am.  Mas- 
ter was  worse,  and  she  was  up  all  night  with  him. 
But  he  is  better  again  to-day,  thank  the  Lord  !" 

The  man  seemed  really  affected,  as  though 
both  "master"  and  "  mistress"  were  served  with 
truer  than  lip-service. 

"I  will  wait  CO  see  Mrs.  Lemuel,"  said  Mis. 
Rochdale,  walking  right  into  the  library. 

The  man  followed,  asking  respectfully  what 
name  he  should  sav. 


"Merely  a  lady." 

We  waited  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  Then 
Mrs.  Lemuel  appeared — somewhat  fluttered, 
looking,  in  spite  of  her  handsome  dress,  a  great 
deal  shyer  and  more  modest  than  the  girl  Nancy 
Hine. 

"I  beg  pardon,  ma'ara,  for  keeping  you 
waiting;  I  was  with  my  husband.  Perhaps 
you're  a  stranger,  and  don't  know  how  ill  he  has 
been.     I  beg  your  pardon." 

Mrs.  Rochdale  put  back  her  vail,  and  Mrs. 
Lemuel  seemed  as  if,  in  common  phrase,  "she 
could  have  dropped  through  the  floor." 

"I  daresay  you  arc  surprised  to  see  me  here," 
the  elder  lady  began  ;  "  still,  you  will  well  im- 
agine, a  mother—"  She  broke  down.  It  was 
some  moments  before  she  could  command  her- 
self to  say,  in  broken  accents,  "I  \vant  to  see 
— my  son." 

"That  you  shall,  with  pleasure,  Mrs.  Roch- 
dale," said  Nancy,  earnestly.  "  I  thought  once 
cf  sending  for  you ;  but — " 

The  other  made  some  gesture  to  indicate  that 
she  was  not  equal  to  conversation,  and  hastily 
moved  up  stairs — Nancy  following.  At  the 
chamber-door,  however,  Nancy  interrupted  her, 

"  Stop  one  minute,  please.  He  has  been  so 
very  ill ;  do  let  me  tell  him  first,  just  to  ].re- 
pare — " 

"He  is  my  son — my  own  son.  You  need 
not  be  afraid,"  said  Mrs.  Rochdale,  in  tones  of 
which  I  know  not  whether  bitterness  or  keen 
anguish  was  uppermost.  She  pushed  by  the 
vife,  and  went  in. 

We  heard  a  faint  cry,  "Oh,  mother,  my  dear 
mother!"  and  a  loud  sob — that  was  all. 

Mrs.  Lemuel  shut  the  door,  and  sat  down 
on  the  floor  outside,  in  tears.  I  forgot  she  had 
been  Nancy  Hine,  and  wept  with  her. 

It  was  a  long  time  before  ]\Irs.  Rochdale 
came  out  of  her  son's  room.  No  one  inter- 
rupted them,  not  even  the  wife.  Mrs.  Lemuel 
kept  restlessly  moving  about  the  house — some- 
times sitting  down  to  talk  familiarly  with  me, 
then  recollecting  herself  and  resuming  her  dig- 
nity. She  was  much  imjirovcd.  Her  manners 
and  her  mode  of  speaking  had  become  more  re- 
fined. It  was  evident,  too,  that  her  mind  had 
been  a  good  deal  cultivated,  and  that  report  had 
not  lied  w  hen  it  avouched  sarcastically,  that  the 
squire  had  left  off  educating  his  dogs  and  taken 
to  educating  his  wife.  If  so,  she  certainly  did 
her  master  credit.  But  Nancy  Hine  was  al- 
ways considered  a  "bright"  girl. 

Awkward  she  was  still — large  and  gaitche  and 
underbred — wanting  in  that  simple  self-pos- 
session which  needs  no  advantages  of  dress  or 
formality  of  manner  to  confirm  the  obvious  fact 
of  innate  "ladyhood."  But  there  was  nothing 
coarse  or  repulsive  about  her- — nothing  that 
would  strike  one  as  springing  from  that  intern- 
al anJ  ineradicable  "vulgarity,"  which,  being 
in  the  nature  as  much  as  in  the  bringing-up,  no 
education  or  external  refinement  of  manner  can 
ever  wholly  conceal. 

I  have  seen  more  than  one  "lady"  of  unde- 


112 


A  LOW  MARRIAGE. 


niable  Lirth  and  rearing,  who  was  a  great  deal 
more  "vulgar"  than  Mrs.  Lemuel  Rochdale. 

AVe  were  sitting  by  the  dining-room  fire. 
Servants  came,  doing  the  day's  mechanical 
service,  and  brought  in  the  tray. 

Mrs.  Lemuel  began  to  fidget  about. 

"Do  you  think.  Miss  Martha,  she  will  stay 
and  take  some  supper  ?  "Would  she  like  to  re- 
main the  night  here?  Ought  I  not  to  order  a 
room  to  be  got  ready  ?" 

But  I  could  not  answer  for  any  of  Mrs.  Roch- 
dale's movements. 

In  process  of  time  she  came  down,  looking 
calm  and  happy — oh,  inconceivably  happy  !~ 
scarcely  happier,  I  doubt,  even  when,  twenty- 
seven  years  ago,  she  had  received  her  new-born 
son  into  her  bosom — her  son,  now  bom  again  to 
her  in  reconciliation  and  love.  She  even  said, 
witii  a  gentle  smile,  to  her  son's  wife, 

"I  think  he  wants  you.  Suppose  you  were 
to  go  up  stairs?" 

Nancy  fled  like  lightning. 

"He  says,"  murmured  Mrs.  Rochdale,  look- 
ing at  the  fire,  "that  she  has  been  a  good  wife 
to  him." 

"  She  is  much  improved  in  many  ways." 

"Most  likely.  My  son's  wife  could  not  fail 
of  that,"  returned  Mrs.  Rochdale,  with  a  certain 
air  that  forbade  all  further  criticism  on  Nancy. 
She  evidently  was  to  be  viewed  entirely  as  "my 
son's  wife." 

jNIrs.  Lemuel  returned.  She  looked  as  if 
she  had  been  crying.  Her  manner  toward  her 
mother-in-law  was  a  mixture  of  gratitude  and 
pleasure. 

' '  My  husband  says,  since  you  will  not  stay 
the  ui.nht,  he  hopes  you  will  take  supper  here, 
and  return  in  the  carriage." 

"Thank  you;  certainly."  And  Mrs.  Roch- 
dale sat  down — unwittingly,  jjcrhaps — in  her 
own  familiar  chair,  by  the  bright  liearth.  Sev- 
eral times  she  sighed ;  but  the  hapjjy  look  never 
altered.  And  now,  wholly  and  forever,  passed 
away  that  sorrowful  look  of  seeking  for  some- 
thing never  found.     It  was  found. 

I  think  a  mother,  entirely  and  eternally  sure 
of  her  son's  perfect  reverence  and  love,  need  not 
be  jealous  of  any  otiier  love,  not  even  lor  a  wife. 
There  is,  in  every  good  man's  heart,  a  sublime 
strength  and  purity  of  attachment,  which  he 
never  does  feel,  never  can  feel,  for  any  woman 
on  earth  except  his  mother. 

Supper  was  served ;  Mrs.  Lemuel  half-ad- 
vanced to  her  usual  place,  then  drew  back,  with 
a  deprecating  glance. 

But  Mrs.  Rochdale  quietly  seated  herself  in 
the  guest's  seat  at  the  side,  leaving  her  son's 
wife  to  take  the  position  of  mistress  and  hostess 
at  the  head  of  tiie  board. 

Terliaps  it  was  I  only  who  felt  a  choking 
pang  of  regret  and  humiliation  at  seeing  my 
dear,  my  nolile  Mrs.  liochdalc  sitting  at  the 
same  table  with  Nancy  1 1  inc. 

After  that  Sunday  the  mother  went  every 
day  to  see  her  son.  This  event  was  the  talk 
»f  the  whole  village :  some  worthy  souls  were 


glad  ;  but  I  think  the  generality  were  rather 
shocked  at  the  reconciliation.  They  "always 
thouglit  Mrs.  Rochdale  had  more  spirit;"  "won- 
dei-ed  she  could  have  let  herself  down."  "  But, 
of  course,  it  was  only  on  account  of  his  illness. 
She  might  choose  to  be  '  on  terms'  with  her  son, 
but  it  was  quite  impossible  she  could  ever  take 
up  with  Nancy  Iline." 

In  that  last  sentiment  I  agreed.  But  then 
the  gossips  did  not  know  that  there  was  a  great 
and  a  daily-increasing  difference  between  Mrs. 
Lemuel  Rochdale  and  "Nancy  Iline." 

I  have  stated  my  creed,  as  it  was  Mrs.  Roch- 
dale's, that  lowness  of  birth  does  not  necessarily 
constitute  a  low  marriage.  Also,  that  popular 
opinion  was  rather  unjust  to  the  baker's  daugh- 
ter. Doubtless  she  was  a  clever,  ambitious  girl, 
anxious  to  raise  herself,  and  glad  enougli  to  do 
so  by  marrying  the  squire.  But  I  believe  she 
was  a  virtuous  and  not  unscrupulous  girl,  and 
I  finnly  believe  she  loved  him.  Once  married, 
she  tried  to  raise  herself  so  as  to  be  worthy 
of  her  station ;  to  kecjj  and  deserve  her  hus- 
band's affection.  That  which  would  have  made 
a  woman  of  meaner  nature  insufferably  proud, 
only  made  Nancy  humble.  Not  that  she  abated 
one  jot  of  her  self-resjiect — for  she  was  a  high- 
spirited  creature — but  she  had  sense  enough  to 
see  that  the  truest  self-respect  lies,  not  in  exact- 
ing honor  which  is  undeserved,  but  in  striving 
to  attain  that  worth  Avliich  receives  honor  and 
obser%-ance  as  its  rightful  due. 

From  tliis  (juality  in  her  probably  grew  the 
undoubted  fact  of  her  great  influence  over  her 
husband.  Also  because,  to  tell  the  truth — (I 
would  not  for  worlds  Mrs.  Rochdale  should  read 
this  page) — Nancy  was  of  a  stronger  nature  than 
he.  Mild  tempered,  la/y,  and  kind,  it  was  easier 
to  him  to  be  ruled  than  to  rule,  provided  he  knew 
nothing  about  it.  This  was  why  the  gentle  Cel- 
andine could  not  retain  the  love  which  Daniel 
Mine's  energetic  daughter  won  and  was  never 
likely  to  lose. 

Mrs.  Rochdale  said  to  me,  when  for  some 
weeks  she  had  observed  narrowly  the  ways  of 
her  son's  household,  "I  think  he  is  not  un- 
happy.    It  might  have  been  worse." 

'J'henceforward  the  gentry  around  Thorpe 
were  "shocked"  and  "really  quite  amazed'' 
every  week  of  their  lives.  First,  that  poor  Mr. 
Rochdale,  looking  very  ill,  but  thoroughly  con- 
tent, was  seen  driving  out  witli  his  mother  by 
his  side,  and  his  wife,  in  her  most  objectionable 
and  tasteless  bonnet,  sitting  opposite.  Second- 
ly, that  the  two  ladies,  elder  and  younger,  were 
several  times  seen  driving  out  together,  only 
they  two,  alone!  The  village  could  scarcely 
believe  tliis,  even  on  the  evidence  of  its  own 
eyes.  'J'hirdly,  that  on  Christmas-day  Mrs. 
Rochdale  was  observed  in  her  old  jilace  in  tlic 
manor-house  pew ;  and  when  her  son  and  his 
wife  came  in,  she  actually  smiled! 

After  tiiat  every  body  gave  up  the  relenting 
mother-in-law  as  a  lost  woman  I 


A  LOW  MARRIAGE. 


118 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Three  months  slipped  away.  It  was  the 
season  when  most  of  our  county  families  were 
in  town.  When  they  gradually  returned,  the 
astounding  truth  was  revealed  concerning  Mrs. 
Rochdale  and  her  son.  Some  were  greatly 
scandalized,  some  pitied  the  weakness  of  moth- 
ers, but  thouy,ht  that  as  she  was  now  growing 
old,  forgiveness  was  excusable. 

"But,  of  course,  she  can  never  expect  us  to 
visit  Mrs.  Lemuel?" 

"I  am  afraid  not,"  was  the  rector's  wife's 
mild  remark.  "Mrs.  Rochdale  is  unlike  most 
ladies ;  she  is  not  only  a  gentlewoman,  but  a 
Christian." 

Yet  it  Avas  obser\-able  that  the  tide  of  feeling 
against  the  squire's  "low"  wife  ebbed  day  by 
day.  First,  some  kindly  stranger  noticed  pub- 
licly that  she  was  "extremely  good-looking;" 
to  confirm  which,  by  some  lucky  chance,  poor 
Nancy  grew  much  thinner,  probably  with  the 
daily  walks  to  and  from  Mrs.  Rochdale's  resi- 
dence. Wild  re]jorts  flew  abroad  that  the 
squire's  mother,  without  doubt  one  of  the  most 
accomplished  and  well-read  women  of  her  gen- 
eration, was  actually  engaged  in  "improving 
the  mind "  of  her  daughter-in-law  ! 

That  some  strong  influence  was  at  work  be- 
came evident  in  the  daily  change  creeping  over 
Mrs.  Lemuel.  Her  manners  grew  quieter,  gen- 
tler;  her  voice  took  a  softer  tone  ;  even  her  at- 
tire, down,  or  rather  up,  to  the  much  abused 
bonnets,  was  subdued  to  colors  suitable  for  her 
large  and  showy  person.  One  day  a  second 
stranger  actually  asked  ' '  who  was  that  distinguc- 
looking  woman  ?"  and  was  coughed  down.  But 
the  effect  of  the  comment  remained. 

Gradually  the  point  at  issue  slightly  changed  ; 
and  the  question  became: 

"I  wonder  whether  INIrs.  Rochdale  expects 
us  to  visit  Mrs.  Lemuel  ?" 

But  Mrs.  Rochdale,  thougli,  of  course,  she 
knew  all  about  it — for  every  body  knew  every 
thing  in  our  village — never  vouchsafed  the  slight- 
est hint  one  way  or  the  other  as  to  her  expecta- 
tions. 

Nevertheless  the  difficulty  increased  daily, 
especially  as  the  squire's  mother  had  been  long 
the  object  of  universal  respect  and  attention 
i'iom  her  neighbors.  The  C[uestion,  " To  visit 
or  not  to  visit?"  was  mooted  and  canvassed  far 
and  wide.  Mrs.  Rochdale's  example  was  strong ; 
yet  the  "county  people"  had  the  prejudices  of 
their  class,  and  most  of  tliem  had  warmly  re- 
garded poor  Celandine  Childe. 

I  have  hitherto  not  said  a  word  of  Miss  Childe. 
She  was  still  abroad.  But  though  Mrs.  Roch- 
dale rarely  alluded  to  her,  I  often  noticed  how 
her  eyes  would  brighten  at  sight  of  letters  in 
the  delicate  handwriting  I  knew  so  well.  The 
strong  attachment  between  these  two  nothing 
had  power  to  break. 

One  day  she  sat  poring  long  over  one  of  Cel- 
andine's letters,   and  many  times  took  oft'  her 
glasses — alas !  as  I  said,  Mrs.  Rochdale  was  an 
H 


old  lady  now — to  wipe  the  dews  from  them. 
At  length  she  called  in  a  clear  voice,  "Martha!" 
and  I  found  her  standing  by  the  minor  smil- 
ing. 

"Martha,  I  am  going  to  a  wedding!" 

"Indeed!   Whose,  madam?" 

"Miss  Childe's.  She  is  to  be  married  next 
week." 

"To  whom!"  I  cried,  in  unfeigned  astonish- 
ment." 

"Do  you  remember  Mr.  Sinclair?" 

I  did.  He  was  the  rector  of  Ashen  Dale. 
One  of  the  many  suitors  whom,  years  ago,  popu- 
lar re))ort  had  given  to  Miss  Childe. 

"  Was  that  really  the  case,  Mrs.  Rochdale?" 

"  Yes.  Afterward  he  became,  and  has  been 
ever  since,  her  truest,  tenderest,  most  faithful 
friend.     Now — " 

Mrs.  Rochdale  sat  down,  still  smiling,  but 
sighing  also.  I,  too,  felt  a  certain  pang,  for 
which  I  blamed  myself  the  moment  after,  to 
think  that  love  can  ever  die  and  be  buiied. 
Yet  surely  the  Maker  of  the  human  heart  knows 
it  best.  One  thing  I  know,  and  perhajis  it 
would  account  for  a  great  deal,  that  the  Lemuel 
of  Celandine's  love  was  not,  never  had  been, 
the  real  Lemuel  Rochdale.      Still — 

Something  in  my  looks  betrayed  me  ;  for 
Mrs.  Rochdale,  turning  round,  said,  decisively,  • 

"Martha,  I  am  very  glad  of  this  marriage,- 
deeply  and  entirely  glad.  She  will  be  happy 
— my  poor  Celandine !" 

And  happy  she  always  has  been,  I  believe. 

After  Mrs.  Rochdale's  return  from  the  wed- 
ding, she  one  day  sent  for  me. 

"  Martha" — and  an  amused  smile  about  her 
mouth  reminded  me  of  our  lady  of  the  manor 
in  her  young  days — "I  am  going  to  astonish 
the  village.  I  intend  giving  a  dinner-party. 
Will  you  write  the  invitations  ?" 

They  were,  without  exception,  to  the  "best" 
families  of  our  neighborhood.  Literally  the 
best- — the  worthiest;  people,  like  Mrs.  Rochdale 
herself,  to  whom  "position"  was  a  mere  cloth- 
ing, used  or  not  used,  never  concealing  or  meant 
to  conceal  the  honest  form  beneath,  the  common 
humanity  that  we  all  owe  alike  to  father  Adam 
and  mother  Eve.  People  who  had  no  need  to 
stickle  for  the  rank  that  was  their  birthri-ht, 
the  honor  that  was  their  due ;  w  hose  blood  was 
so  thoroughly  "gentle"  that  it  inclined  therti- 
to  gentle  manners  and  gentle  deeds.  Of  such 
— and  there  are  not  a  few  throughout  our  En- 
glish land — of  such  are  the  true  aristocracy. 

All  Thorpe  was  on  the  qui  vive  respecting  this 
wonderful  dinner-party,  for  hitherto — gossip 
said  bv^cause  she  could,  of  course,  have  no  gen- 
tleman at  the  head  of  her  table — Mrs.  Rochdale 
had  abstained  from  any  thing  of  the  kind.  Now, 
would  her  son  really  take  his  rightful  place  at 
the  entertainment?  and  if  so,  what  was  to  be 
done  with  his  wife?  Could  our  "best"  fami- 
lies, much  as  they  esteemed  Mrs.  Rochdale, 
ever,  under  any  possible  circumstances,  be  ex- 
pected to  meet  the  former  Nancy  Iline? 

I  need  not  say  how  the  whole  question  served 


114 


THE  DOUBLE  HOUSE. 


for  a  week's  wonder ;  and  how  every  body  knew 
every  other  body's  thoughts  and  intentions  a 
great  deal  better  than  "other  bodies"  theni- 
selres.  Half  the  village  was  out  at  the  door  or 
window,  when  on  this  memorable  afternoon  the 
several  carriages  were  seen  driving  up  to  Mrs. 
Rochdale's  house. 

Within,  we  are  quiet  enough.  She  had  few 
preparations — she  always  lived  in  simple  ele- 
gance. Even  on  this  grand  occasion  she  only 
gave  what  cheer  her  means  could  afford — no- 
thing more.  Show  was  needless,  for  every 
guest  was  not  a  mere  acquaintance,  but  a  friend. 

Dressed  richly,  and  with  special  care — how 
well  I  remembered,  that  is,  if  I  had  dared  to 
remember,  another  similar  toilet  I — Mrs.  Roch- 
dale sat  in  her  chamber.  Not  until  the  visit- 
ors were  all  assembled  did  she  descend  to  the 
drawing-room. 

Entering  there — she  did  not  enter  alone  ;  on 
her  arm  was  a  lady  of  thirty;  lar;j;e  and  hand- 
some in  figure  ;  plainly  but  most  becomingly 
attired ; — a  lady  to  whose  manners  or  appear- 
ance none  could  have  taken  the  slighest  excep- 
tion, and  on  whom  any  stranger's  most  likely 
comment  would  have  been,  "What  a  fine-look- 
ing woman  !    but  so  quiet." 

This  lady  Mrs.  Rochdale  at  once  presented 
to  the  guests,  with  a  simijle,  unimjjn^ssive  quiet- 
ness, which  was  the  most  impressive  effect  she 
could  have  made — 

"  My  daughter,  Mrs.  Lemuel  Rochdale." 

In  a  week,  "every  body"  visited  at  the  ma- 
Bor-house. 

«  *  «  «  4<  >t< 

Perhaps  I  ought  to  end  this  history  by  de- 
scribing the  elder  and  younger  Mrs.  Rochdale 


as  henceforward  united  in  the  closest  sympatlijr 
and  tcnderest  affection.  It  was  not  so;  it  would 
have  been  unnatural,  nay,  im{)ossible.  The  dif- 
ference of  education,  habits,  character,  was  too 
great  ever  to  be  wholly  removed.  But  the 
mother  and  daughter-in-law  maintain  a  socia- 
ble intercourse,  even  a  certain  amount  of  kindly 
regard,  based  on  one  safe  point  of  union,  where 
the  strongest  attachment  of  both  converges 
and  mingles.  Perhajjs,  as  those  blessed  with  a 
su])erabundance  of  faithful  luve  often  end  by 
deserving  it,  Mr.  Rochdale  may  grow  worthy, 
not  only  of  his  wife,  but  of  his  mother,  in  time. 

Mrs.  Rochdale  is  quite  an  ckl  lady  now.  You 
rarely  meet  her  beyond  th':-,  lane  where  her  small 
house  stands ;  which  she  occujies  still,  and  ob- 
stinately refuses  to  leave.  But  meeting  her, 
you  could  not  helj)  turning  back  for  another 
glance  at  her  slow,  stately  walk,  and  her  ineffa- 
bly beautiful  smile.  A  smile  which,  to  a  cer- 
tainty, would  rest  on  the  gentleman  u]on  whose 
arm  she  always  leans,  and  whose  horse  is  seen 
daily  at  her  gate,  with  a  persistency  etiual  to 
that  of  a  young  man  going  a-courting.  For 
people  say  in  our  village  that  tlie  squire,  with 
all  his  known  affection  for  his  goud  wife,  is  as 
attentive  as  any  lover  to  his  beloved  old  moth- 
er, who  has  been  such  a  devoted  mother  to 
him. 

One  want  exists  at  the  manor-house — there 
are  no  children.  For  some  things  this  is  as  well ; 
and  yet  I  know  not.  However,  so  it  is;  and 
since  it  is,  it  must  be  right  to  be.  When  tliis 
generation  dies  out,  probably-  the  next  will  al- 
together have  forgotten  the  fact  that  the  last 
]Mr.  Rochdale  made  what  society  ignomiuiouslj 
terms  "  a  low  marriage." 


THE  DOUBLE   HOUSE. 


"  Jamks,  the  house  is  let." 

"  Which  ?"  said  Mr.  Rivers,  never  looking  up 
from  his  dinner— for  a  dozen  {)atients,  scatter- 
ed over  a  dozen  square  miles,  were  awaiting 
him. 

"The  house — the  Double  House.  The  one 
that  every  body  thought  would  never  get  a  ten- 
ant.    But  it  has  got  one," 

"Who?" 

"A  Dr.  Merchiston,  a  physician  ,  but,  luck- 
ily for  us,  he  does  not  practice.  He  is  a  man 
of  large  fortune." 

"  Married  ?— children  ?" 

"  I  really  don't  know.  But  I  should  rather 
think  not.  Most  family  men  would  object  to 
that  very  inconvenient  house.  It  might  suit  an 
eccentric  bachelor,  who  could  live  alone  in  the 
oac  half,  and  shut  up  his  domestics  in  the  oth- 


er, locking  the  door  of  communication  between. 
But  for  a  mistress  and  mother  of  a  family — dear 
me  ! — one  might  as  well  live  in  two  separate 
houses.  One  never  could  hear  the  children  cry 
of  nights,  and  the  maids  might  idle  as  much  as 
they  liked  without — " 

Here  I  turned  round,  finding  I  was  talking 
to  the  air.  My  husband  had  disappeared.  It 
was  in  vain  to  attempt  to  interest  him  about  the 
Double  House,  or  the  people  that  were  coming 
there. 

But  as  to  the  rest  of  our  village — speculation 
ran  wild  concerning  the  new-comers.  First, 
because  a  grave,  dignified,  middle-aged  gentle- 
man like  Dr.  Merchiston — of  such  composed 
and  (juiet  manners,  too — had  chosen  to  live  in 
this  eccentric  and  uncomfortable  mansion  ;  for, 
as  before  stated,  it  went  b/   the   name  of  the 


THE  DOUBLE  HOUSE. 


115 


Double  House,  and  consisted  of  two  houses 
joined  together  by  a  covered  passage  and  door 
of  communication,  each  having  its  separate  en- 
trance, and  being,  in  fact,  a  comjdete  dwelling. 
Secondly,  because,  when  the  furniture  was  sent 
in,  it  was  discovered  to  be  the  appointments  of 
two  distinct  habitations  ;  namely,  two  drawing- 
rooms,  two  dininy;-rooms,  two  liitchens,  and  so 
on.  The  wonder  grew — wlien  Dr.  Merchis- 
ton,  accom})anicd  by  an  elderly  person,  "Mrs. 
Merchiston's  maid,"  (there  was  a  Mrs.  Mercliis- 
ton,  then  I)  inducted  into  the  establishment 
two  distinct  sets  of  domestics ;  two  cooks,  two 
housemaids,  etc. 

And  now  every  body  waited  for  the  master 
and  mistress,  who,  we  learned,  had  to  make  a 
long  journey  from  London  by  post — fur  all  this 
happened  when  I  was  a  3'oung  married  woman, 
more  than  forty  years  ago.  I  had  my  hands 
empty  then — possibly,  my  head,  too,  for  I  re- 
member loitering  about  the  whole  day,  and  sit- 
ting lazily  at  parlor  windows,  just  to  catch  the 
first  sight  of  niy  new  neighbors.  Nay,  I  will 
confess  that  wlien  the  chaise  and  four  thun- 
dered past  our  liouse  I  peeped  from  under  the 
blind. 

In  the  carriage  I  saw  only  the  elderly  female 
servant,  and  a  figure  leaning  back.  Dr.  Mer- 
chiston  was  certainly  not  there. 

Half  an  hour  afterward  he  galloped  past  in 
the  twilight  to  his  own  door,  which  closed  upon 
him  as  quickly  as  it  had,  a  short  time  before, 
closed  upon  the  others. 

"  Well,  they  are  come,"  said  I  to  James  that 
evening. 

"  Who  ?■'  lie  ejaculated,  most  provokingly. 

"  The  Merchistons,  of  course.  And  nobody 
is  a  bit  the  wiser." 

My  husband  ])ut  on  his  quaintest  smile  (a 
merry  man,  children,  was  your  grandfather) — 
"Never  mind — there's  Sunday  coming." 

My  ho])es  revived.  I  led  a  dull  life  in 
James's  long  absences,  and  had  been  really 
anxious  for  a  neighbor — a  pleasant  neighbor — 
a  true  gentlewoman.  Yes,  of  course,  we  should 
see  the  Merchistons  at  church  on  Sunday,  for  a 
large  pew  had  been  taken,  cushioned  and  has- 
socked  to  perfection  ;  besides,  the  doctor  look- 
ed like  a  respectable  church-going  gentleman. 

And  sure  enough,  when  service  began,  above 
the  high  ])ew,  distinct  to  the  eye  of  the  whole 
congregation,  rose  his  tall  head  and  shoulders. 

He  was  in  the  prime  of  life,  though  his  hair 
was  already,  as  we  say  of  a  September  tree, 
"turning."  He  had  a  large,  well-shaped  head, 
very  broad  across  the  crown,  just  where  my 
grandson  tells  me  lies  the  bump  of  conscien- 
tiousness ;  but  we  never  thought  of  such  folly 
as  phrenology  in  my  days.  For  the  face — I  do 
not  clearly  remember  the  features,  but  I  know 
the  general  impression  conveyed  was  that  of  a 
strong  will,  capable  of  any  amount  of  self-con- 
trol or  self-denial.  The  eyes,  thougli  honest 
and  clear,  had  at  times  much  restlessness  in 
them  ;  when  steady  and  fixed,  they  were,  I 
think,  the  saddest  eyes  I  ever  saw.      His  coun- 


tenance was  sickly  and  pale,  though  he  flushed 
up  once  or  twice  on  meeting  the  universal 
stare  —  which  stare  increased  tenfold  when  he 
actually  repeated  audibly  and  devoutly  the  re- 
sponses which  the  Kubric  enjoins  on  the  con- 
gregation, and  the  congregation  usually  dele- 
gates to  the  charity-boys  and  the  clerk. 

Except  this  we  could  find  nothing  extraor- 
dinary in  Dr.  IMerchiston's  a]ipearance  or  be- 
havior. He  sat  in  his  pew  alone  ;  he  went 
out  as  he  had  entered,  silently,  quietly,  and 
alone.  In  another  pew  sat  two  of  the  house- 
servants  and  Mrs.  Merchiston's  maid.  The 
lady  herself  did  not  come  to  church  at  all  that 
day. 

It  was  rather  disappointing — since,  by  Ape- 
dale  etiquette,  no  one  could  call  on  Mrs.  Mer- 
chiston  until  she  had  a]ipeared  at  church.  But 
Me  heard  during  the  week  that  the  Hector  had 
called  on  Dr.  Merchiston. 

1  tried  to  persuade  Mr.  Rivers  to  do  the  same 
^it  would  be  only  kind  and  neighborly.  After 
half  an  hour's  coaxing,  which,  aj  parently,  was 
all  thrown  away,  he  briefly  observed, 

"Peggy,  I've  been." 

"  Oh  !  do  tell  me  all  about  it,  from  the  verj' 
beginning.  Which  door  did  you  knock  at  ? 
The  one  with  a  brass  plate,  and  'Dr.  Merchis- 
ton' on  it  ?" 

"Yes." 

"And  you  saw  him?  You  were  shown  up 
to  the  drawing-room  or  ihe  library — which  ?" 

"Library." 

"Was  he  alone  ?  Was  he  polite  and  pleas- 
ant ?     Did  you  see  bis  wife  ? 

Two  nods  and  a  shake  of  the  head  were  all 
the  answer  I  received  to  these  three  questions. 

"Dear  me !  How  odd  I  I  hoi)e  you  inquired 
after  her  ?    How  did  her  husband  say  she  was?" 

"Quite  well." 

"Nothing  more?" 

"Nothing  more." 

"Well — you  are  the  most  provoking  man  to 
get  any  thing  out  of." 

"And  you,  my  Peggy,  are  one  of  those  ex- 
cellent women  who  will  never  cease  trying  hard 
to  get  out  of  a  man  things  which  he  absolutely 
does  not  know." 

I  laughed ;  for  what  was  the  use  of  quarrel- 
ing? Besides,  didn't  I  know  all  James's  little 
peculiarities  before  I  married  him? 

"Just  one  question  more,  James.  Have 
they  any  children?" 

"  Didn't  ask." 

So  the  whole  Merchiston  affair  stood  precise- 
ly where  it  was — until  the  next  Sunday.  Then, 
in  the  afternoon,  as  I  walked  to  church,  I  saw 
a  lady  come  quietly  out  of  the  Double  House, 
at  the  left-hand  door — not  the  one  witii  the 
brass  name-plate — close  it  after  bei',  and  jiro- 
ceed  alone  across  the  road  and  down  Church- 
alley. 

She  paused  a  moment  in  the  church-yard 
walk,  which  was  very  beautifid  iu  the  May 
afternoon,  with  the  two  great  trees  meeting 
overhead,  and  throwing  checkers  of  light  and 


116 


THE  DOUBLE  HOUSE. 


shade  on  the  path  leading  to  the  porch.  She 
looked  arounil  as  if  she  admired  and  enjoyed 
this  scene,  with  its  picturesque  groups  of  twos 
and  threes — fathers  and  mothers,  husbands  and 
wives,  lingering  about  and  talking  till  the  chime 
of  bells  should  cease.  She  looked  apparently 
with  a  kindly  interest  on  them  all,  and  then, 
as  if  suddenly  conscious  that  they  looked  back 
inquisitively  at  her,  dropped  her  vail  and  hur- 
riedly entered  the  church. 

I  heard  her  asking  the  sexton  in  a  low  voice, 
which  seemed  to  belong  to  a  woman  still  young, 
"which  was  Dr.  Merchiston's  pew?" 

She  was  shown  in,  and  then — being  small  of 
stature — she  entirely  vanished  from  my  gaze 
and  that  of  the  congregation. 

Could  it  be  tliat  this  was  ^Irs.  Merchiston  ? 

I  do  not  exaggerate  when  I  .say  that  I  had  six 
successive  "drop])ers-in"  on  the  Monday  morn- 
ing— to  my  great  inconvenience,  fur  I  was  mak- 
in.;  my  cowslijj-wine — I  should  say,  my  lirst  at- 
tempt at  this  potent  liquor — and  that  the  sole 
subject  of  conversation  was  Mrs.  Merchiston. 

•'What  a  tiny  woman!"  "How  plainly 
dre-scd  !  why,  her  pelisse  was  quite  old-fashion- 
ed." "Yet  somebody  said  she  was  young." 
"He  does  not  seem  above  forty,  either."  "How 
straiige  that  he  sliould  let  her  go  to  church 
rtlouc — the  first  time  of  her  appearance,  tool" 

Such  were  the  comments,  blended  with  a 
small  quantum  of  lately-elicited  facts,  which 
reached  me  concerning  my  new  neighbors. 
"  Very  odd  people — exceedingly  queer — ought 
to  be  inquired  into,"  was  the  general  conclusion. 
All  the  village  began  to  discuss  the  Double 
House,  the  duplicate  establishment,  and  the 
notable  facts  that,  since  their  arrival.  Dr.  Mer- 
chiston had  been  seen  out  every  daj^,  Mrs.  Mer- 
chiston never;  that  Dr.  Merchiston  had  come 
to  church,  Mrs.  Merchiston  staying  at  home, 
and  vice  versa. 

The  result  was,  the  Apedale  ladies  cautiously 
resolved  to  defer  "  visiting"  the  strangers  a  little 
longer,  till  assured  of  their  respectability ;  and 
I  being  myself  a  new-comer,  hating  gossip, 
scand;il,  and  censoriousness,  with  the  virulence 
of  warm-hearted,  all-credulous  youth,  inly  de- 
termined to  call  the  next  day. 

But  first,  of  course,  I  asked  my  husband's 
leave ;  and  gaining  it,  hazarded  a  question  or 
two  further,  since  James,  from  his  profession 
and  long  standing  in  the  county,  knew  every 
body  and  cvf^ry  thing. 

"Who  is  he.  Peg?  I  know  no  more  than 
that  he  is  Evan  Merchiston,  M.D.,  of  the  Uni- 
versity of  Gla'sgow." 

"And  Mrs.  Merchiston?" 

"Was  Barbara,  only  child  of  Thomas  and 
Barbara  Carrie,  late  of  Apedale  in  this  county, 
who  were  drowned  at  sea  in  seventeen  hundred 
and—" 

"Stop,  stop!  you  are  like  an  animated  tomb- 
Htone  reading  itself  aloud.  The  very  stone — I 
have  seen  it  in  our  owti  church-yard.  And  so 
she  was  born  at  Apedale?  That  accounts  for 
their  coming  to  settle  here." 


"Precisely.     Any  thing  more,  Peg?" 

"  No,  James  ;"  for  I  was  ashamed  of  my  own 
doubts,  as  if  that  soft,  mild  face  1  caught  a 
glimpse  of  under  the  vail,  and  the  manly,  be- 
nevolent head  which  I  had  watched  the  j)revious 
Sunday,  did  not  prove,  despite  all  gossij),  that 
the  Merchistons  were  "respectable"— even  in 
mi/  sense  of  the  word,  which  was  wider  than 
that  of  my  neighbors.  "A  respectable  man" — 
as  James  once  said  when  he  was  court  in  j,  me — 
"  a  respectable  man  is  one  who  is  al"  ays  worthy 
of  respect,  because  he  always  respects  both  him- 
self and  other  peojjle." 

Perhaps  it  was  to  jirovc  my  own  "respecta- 
bility" in  this  sense — and  justly  I  might  respect 
myself — namely,  the  ha])py  woman  who  was 
James  Kivers's  wife — that  1  dressed  myself  in  my 
very  bast  muslin  gown  of  my  own  working,  and 
my  i)retty  green  silk  spencer  and  h:it  that  my 
motiicr  gave  when  I  was  marrieii,  i)re])aratory  to 
'  calling  on  Mrs.  Merchiston. 

At  the  Double  House  arose  a  puzzle.  There 
were  two  front  doors,  and  which  sliould  I  knock 
at?  After  some  doubt,  I  thought  I  could  not 
do  better  than  follow  iu  my  husband's  st','j)S,  so 
I  gave  a  summons  at  the  door  with  the  brass 
]ilate  on  it. 

A  man,  half  valet,  half  groom,  answered. 

"  Is  Mrs.  Merchiston  at  home?" 

"I  don't  know,  ma'am  ;  I  will  inquire,  if  you 
please.  Will  you  be  so  kind  as  to  knock  at  the 
other  door?" 

Upon  which,  with  some  abruptness,  he  shut 
this  one,  and  left  me  outside. 

"Well,"  thought  I,  "what  can  it  signify 
which  door  I  go  in  at?  though  'tis  rather  odd, 
too." 

However,  I  did  as  I  was  bidden,  and  was 
shown  by  a  ne;it  maid-servant  into  a  very  hand- 
some i)arlor — drawing-room  you  would  call  it 
now,  but  drawing-rooms  had  not  then  reached 
Apedale. 

By  the  ap])earance  of  a  recently  vacated  sit- 
ting-room you  can  make  a  very  good  guess  at 
its  occupant.  I  soon  decided  that  Mrs.  Mer- 
chiston was  young,  iiu'lined  to  elegant  tastes, 
especially  music,  tintt  she  had  no  children,  was 
left  a  good  deal  alone,  iind  probably  found  her- 
self in  that  dreariest  i)Osiii(in  for  an  active  mind 
— that  of  a  lady  with  nothing  to  do. 

After  a  considera])ly  long  interval  she  ap- 
peared. Her  v.clcomc  was  courteous,  even 
friendly,  though  not  without  a  sli,^ht  nervous- 
ness and  hesitation. 

It  certainly  had  not  been  her  toilet  that 
kept  me  waiting,  for  she  was  in  the  simjdest 
possible  morning-gown  of  nankeen,  and  her 
hair  would  not  have  taken  a  minute's  dressing, 
as  it  curled  all  round  her  head  in  natural,  wavy 
curls  like  a  child's.  Verv  childlike,  too,  were 
both  the  figure  and  face  ;  I  coukl  h:irdly  believe 
that  she  must  be,  from  the  date  of  her  parents' 
death  on  the  tombstone,  nearly,  if  not  quite, 
thirty  years  old.  She  was  not  exactly  i)retty, 
but  the  cxjircssion  of  her  blue  eyes  Wiis  very 
beautiful,  perfectly  simple,  trusting,  guileless, 


THE  DOUBLE  HOUSE. 


117 


and  gay.  She  was,  in  short,  just  the  sort  of 
woman  that  I  should  have  expected  a  grave 
man  like  Dr.  Merchiston  to  choose  out  from  the 
world  of  much  cleverer  and  lovelier  women, 
and  love  deeply,  perhaps  even  madly,  to  the 
end  of  his  days. 

I  was  quite  satisfied,  nay,  charmed  with  her. 
When  we  parted,  after  a  much  longer  chat  than 
etiquette  required,  I  invited  her  warmly  to  our 
house. 

"  I  shall  be  happy  to  come  in  a  friendly  way, 
but  I  believe  Dr.  Merchiston  does  not  wish  for 
much  visiting." 

This  was  the  first  time  the  doctor's  name  had 
entered  into  our  conversation,  so  I  politely  in- 
quired after  his  health,  stating  that  I  had  seen 
him  in  church,  and  hoping  I  should  soon  have 
the  pleasure  of  an  introduction  to  him.  I  ex- 
pected she  would  take  the  hint,  send  for  her 
husband,  and  perform  the  desired  introduction 
now. 

But  Mrs.  Merchiston  did  nothing  of  the  kind; 
she  merely  answered  my  inquiries  as  briefly  as 
civility  allowed,  and  evaded  the  subject. 

Curiosity  was  too  strong ;  I  could  not  let  it 

go- 

"I  hope  sincerely  that  it  is  not  on  account 

of  illness  that  Dr.  jMerchiston  abstains  from 
visiting.  My  husband  thought  ho  looked  in 
rather  weak  health." 

"  Does  he  look  so  ?  In  weak  health  ?  Oh 
no — oh  no  !" 

All  the  wife  was  indicated  in  that  start — 
that  flush — that  paleness.  Yet  she  had  answer- 
ed indift'crently  when  I  inquired  after  him  ;  and 
in  her  conversation  and  the  surroundings  of 
this  room  there  was  no  more  trace  of  Dr.  Mer- 
chiston than  if  he  never  entered  there,  or  in- 
deed no  longer  existed.  Likewise  in  her  form 
of  speech  I  liad  noticed  not  the  habitual  happy 
"we"  wliich  most  married  people  learn  to  use, 
but  the  sad,  involuntarily  selfish  "I"  of  spin- 
sters and  childless  widows.  It  was  incompre- 
hensible. 

I  hastened  to  atone  for  my  inadvertence. 
"Indeed,  my  dear  Mrs.  Merchiston,  you  need 
not  be  alarmed.  It  must  be  only  his  natural 
paleness  which  strikes  a  stranger;  while  you 
who  see  him  every  day — " 

"Oh,  that  is  it — that  is  it,"  she  hurriedly 
answered,  and  took  me  to  the  window  to  show 
me  her  flowers.     Very  soon  after,  I  departed. 

Some  weeks  passed ;  she  returned  my  visit, 
and,  of  course,  I  paid  a  second.  Several  of  our 
village  wives  and  mothers  called  likewise.  It 
was  always  the  same  story :  they  had  been  re- 
ceived with  courtesy,  were  delighted  with  Mrs. 
Merchiston,  but  no  one  ever  saw  her  husband. 
And  when  the  fathers  of  families,  one  after 
another,  jwid  their  respects  to  the  doctor,  they 
likewise  returned  well  pleased,  pronounced  him 
a  pleasant,  good-hearted,  gentlemanly  fellow, 
but  wondered  that  he  never  introduced  them  to 
his  wife. 

Two  dinner-parties  were  made  for  the  new- 
comers, and  the  invitations  accepted  ;  but  ere 


the  first,  Mrs.  Merchiston  was  "slightly  indis- 
posed ;"  and  at  the  second,  Dr.  Merchiston  was 
"  unavoidably  absent  on  business."  So  that  to 
both  dinners  each  one  came  alone ;  neverthe- 
less, the  impression  they  severally  left  behind 
was  that  of  "exceedingly  nice  people." 

At  this  time  I  did  not  go  out  much ;  and 
some  weeks  after,  your  mother,  children,  was 
born.  She  cost  me  a  long  illness,  almost  my 
life ;  but  she  throve  well,  and  at  last  I  recov- 
ered. Mrs.  Merchiston  was  among  my  first 
visitors. 

I  was  glad  to  sec  her,  for  she  had  been  very 
kind.  Many  a  basket  of  fruit  and  flowers  had 
came  from  the  Double  House  to  ours.  I 
thanked  her  as  warmly  as  I  felt. 

"  And  your  husband,  too — I  do  believe  he  ha.s 
shot  half  the  partridges  in  the  county  for  my 
benefit — I  have  had  so  many ;  besides,  it  was 
he  who  rode  twelve  miles  to  fetcli  James  that 
night  they  thought  me  dying." 

"Was'it?" 

"  Did  you  not  know  ?  Then  do  tell  him, 
Mrs.  Merchiston,  how  much  I  thank  him  for 
his  goodness — for  the  comfort,  the  help  he  was 
to  my  ]ioor  James  !  Ah  !  he  could  understand 
what  a  husband  feels  when  his  wife  is  dying." 

Mrs.  Merchiston  stooped  over  the  new  cradle 
with  the  little  one  asleep.  She  did  tiot  speak 
a  word. 

"But  you  will  tell  him,"  pursued  I,  earnest 
in  my  gratitude.  "  What  an  excellent  man 
he  must  be  I" 

"He  is,"  she  answered,  in  a  tone  evidently 
steadied  carefully  down,  even  to  coldness.  "Jt 
is  always  a  pleasure  to  him  to  do  a  kindness  to 
any  one.     May  I  look  at  the  baby?" 

She  walked  up  and  down  the  parlor,  lulling 
it  on  her  arms.  It  nestled  its  wee  face  into 
her  bosom. 

"  Ko,  I  am  not  your  mother,  little  one. 
Ah,  no!" 

She  gave  the  child  back  to  me  and  turned 
away.     Her  eyes  were  full  of  tears. 

Then  taking  a  chair  by  me,  and  softly  strok- 
ing baby's  fingers,  she  said,  "Children,  I  bb- 
lieve,  are  a  great  responsibility  and  a  heavy 
care  ;  but  I  think  it  is  a  sadder  thing  still  ne\er 
to  have  had  a  child.  There  can  be  no  love,  no 
happiness  like  a  mother's  ;  it  often  atones  for 
the  loss  of  all  other  love — all  other  happiness." 

"Do  you  think  so?" 

"  Yes,  at  times.  Because  motherhood  must 
forever  taktr  away  the  selfislmess  of  grief.  How 
could  a  woman  feel  selfish  or  desolate — how 
could  she  indeed  know  any  personal  grief  at  all, 
if  she  had  a  child  ?" 

"  You  are  speaking  less  as  a  wife  would  feel 
than  a  widow.  And  you  and  I,  Mrs.  Merchis- 
ton, can  not,  need  not,  dare  not,  talk  as  wid- 
ows." 

"God  forbid,"  she  said,  with  a  shiver. 

I  took  an  early  opportunity  of  sending  babj 
away,  and  talking  of  everyday  things.  1  have 
great  ]iity  for  a  childless  wife,  unless,  as  larely 
ha]ipens  in  this  world,  her  marriage  is  so  su- 


lis 


THE  DOUBLE  HOUSE. 


premclv  hnppy  that  the  briinniiii"^  cup  leaves 
not  another  drop  to  be  desired.  Yet  even  then 
its  sweetness  is  apt  to  cloy,  or  become  a  sort  of 
dual  egotism,  which  feels  no  love,  sympathizes 
with  no  sorrow,  and  shares  no  joy,  that  is  not 
strictly  its  own.  Forgetting,  perhaps,  that  per- 
fect wedded  union  is  not  meant  for  the  satisfac- 
tion of  the  two  only,  but  also  that  from  tlieir 
eneness  of  bliss  they  may  radiate  a  wide  liijht 
of  goodness  and  blessedness  out  upon  the  world. 

I  rather  wondered,  knowing  from  rejwrt  and 
from  my  own  experience  what  good  people  the 
Merchistons  were,  that  they  did  not  botli  try 
more  to  live  this  life,  which  would  certainly  have 
made  them  hapjiier  than  slie,  at  least,  ajipeared. 
Yet,  as  I  said,  I  pitied  her.  No  one  can  see 
the  .skeleton  in  his  neighbor's  house,  or  the  worm 
in  his  friend's  heart :  yet  we  know,  as  our  ex- 
perience of  life  grows  wider,  that  both  must  as- 
suredly be  there. 

Mrs.  Merchiston  and  I  had  a  very  jdcasant 
chat ;  the  baby  had  opened  our  hearts.  \Yc 
were  growing  better  than  ac(iuaintance — friends. 
We  planned  social  evenings  for  the  ensuing 
■winter,  in  wiiich,  when  he  came  in,  Mr.  Itivers 
cordially  joined. 

"And  I  Jiope  we  shall  see  the  doctor  too, 
madam,"  continued  he,  breaking  out  into  im- 
pressiveness,  and  discarding  laconicism  ;  "tliere 
isn't  a  man  alive  I  respect  more  than  your  hus- 
band." 

She  colored  vividly,  but  merely  observed, 
"You  arc  right — I  thank  you." 

AVe  were  all  standing  at  our  door,  she  being 
just  about  to  take  leave.  Suddenly  she  drew 
back  within.  At  that  moment  there  passed 
close  by — so  close  that  he  must  liave  touched 
his  wife's  dress — Dr.  Merchiston. 

He  looked  in,  distinctly  saw  us  all,  and  we 
him. 

"  Doctor — doctor !"  cried  my  husband. 

In  crossing  the  street.  Dr.  Merchiston  turned, 
bowed  in  reply,  but  did  not  stop. 

"  Excuse  me,  I  had  sometiiing  to  say  to 
him,"  cried  James,  and  was  otf,  without  a 
glance  at  Mrs.  Merchiston. 

But  when  I  looked  at  her  I  was  really 
alarmed.  Her  limbs  were  tottering,  her  coun- 
tenance pale  as  death.  I  helped  her  back  into 
the  parlor,  and  made  her  lie  down ;  but  all  my 
efforts  could  scarcely  keep  her  from  fainting. 
At  length  she  said,  feebly — 

"Thank  you,  I  am  better  now.  It  is  very 
wrong  of  me.  But  I  could  not  help  it.  Oh, 
-Mrs.  Rivers" — with  a  i)iteous,  bewildered  look 
— "  if  you  had  been  his  wife,  and  had  not  seen 
him  for  two  wiiole  years  I" 

"Him!  Is  it  possible  you  mean  j-our  hus- 
band?" 

"Yes,  my  own  husband^ — my  dear  husband, 
who  loved  me  when  he  married  me.  God  knows 
what  I  have  done  that  he  slioidd  not  love  me 
now! — Oh  me!  what  have  I  liocn  saying?" 
•  "  Never  mind  wluit  you  have  been  saying,  my 
df-ar  l.idy,  I  shall  keep  it  all  secret.  There  now, 
it  will  do  you  good  to  cry." 


And  I  cried  too,  heartilj-.  It  seemed  very 
dreadful.  That  young,  fond,  pretty  creature, 
to  live  under  the  same  roof  as  her  husband, 
and  not  to  have  seen  him  for  two  whole  years. 
Here  was  explained  the  mystery  of  the  Double 
House — here  was  confirmation  entire  of  those 
few  straggling  reports  which,  when  1  caught 
them  flying  abroad,  I  had  utterly  quenched,  de- 
nied, and  disbelieved.  I  was  greatly  shocked, 
and,  as  was  natural.  I  took  the  woman's  side  of 
the  question. 

"And  I  thought  him  so  good,  and  you  so 
happy!     ^Yhat  deceivers  men  are!" 

"  You  are  mistaken,  Mrs.  Kivers,  in  one  man 
at  least,"  she  returned,  with  dignity;  "your 
husband  spoke  truly  when  he  saiii  there  was  no 
man  living  more  worthy  of  respect  than  Dr. 
Merchiston." 

"  He  has  not  lost  yours,  then?" 

"  In  no  point." 

"  And  you  love  him  .still  ?" 

"  I  do  ;  God  pity  me — I  do."  She  sobbed 
as  if  her  heart  were  t)rcaking. 

There  Mas  then  but  one  conclusion  to  be 
drawn — one  only  reason  for  a  good  man's  thus 
mercilessly  i)uttiiig  away  his  wife, — some  error 
on  her  i)art,  either  known  or  imagined  by^him. 
But  no !  when  I  looked  down  on  her  gentle,  in- 
nocent, childlike  face,  I  rejected  the  doubt  as 
impossible.  Nor  hail  I  detected  in  her  any  of 
those  inherent,  incurable  faults  of  temper  or  of 
character,  the  "  continual  drojijiing  that  weareth 
away  the  stone,"  which,  if  divorce  be  ever  justi- 
flalde  for  any  thing  short  of  crime,  would  have 
justified  it  in  some  marriages  I  have  seen. 

"Does  any  body  know?  Not  that  I  mind, 
but  it  might  harm  liim.  Mrs.  Kivers,  do  you 
think  any  body  at  Apedale  knows  ?" 

"  Alas,  in  a  village  like  this,  there  can  be  no 
such  thing  as  a  secret." 

She  wrung  her  hands.  "I  thought  so — I 
feared  so.  But  he  came  to  live  in  the  country 
because  the  doctors  said  London  air  was  killing 
me.  I  wish  it  had  killed  me — oh,  I  ^ish  it 
had!" 

I  have  seen  the  look  of  desjiair  in  many  a 
wronged,  miserable  wife's  eyes,  but  I  never  saw 
it  so  Tnournfully  jilain  as  in  those  of  poor  Bar- 
bara ^Merchiston.  I  took  her  to  my  arms,  though 
she  was  older  than  I,  and  asked  her  to  let  mc 
comfort  her  and  be  her  friend,  if  she  had  no 
other. 

"Not  one — not  one.  But" — and  she  started 
back  with  a  sudden  fear — "you  will  not  be  my 
friend  by  becoming  an  enemy  to  my  husbanil?" 

"I  have  no  such  intention.  I  condemn  him 
not :  to  his  own  Master  let  him  stand  or  fall." 

Probably  this  was  harshly  s])oken,  for  she 
took  my  hand,  saying,  imploringly,  "  Tny  do 
not  misjudge  cither  him  or  me.  I  was  very 
wrong  in  betraying  any  thing.  But  my  life  ia 
so  lonely.  I  am  not  strong;  and  this  shock 
was  too  much  for  me.  How  ill  he  looked — how 
gray  he  has  grown !  Oh,  Kvan,  my  poor  hus- 
band !" 

To  see  her  weejiing  there,  without  the  slight- 


THE  DOUSLE  HOUSE. 


119 


est  anger  or  woiincied  pride,  roused  both  feel- 
in;^s  ill  me.  I  determined  to  fathom  this  mys- 
terious affair;  and,  braving  the  usual  fate  of 
those  who  interfere  between  man  and  wife  — 
namely,  being  hated  by  both  parties— to  try 
and  remedy  it  if  I  could. 

"  Tell  me,  my  dear  Mrs.  Merchiston — believe 
me  it  is  from  no  idle  curiosity  I  ask — how  long 
has  this  state  of  iliings  lasted?" 

"For  five  years.' 

"Five  years!"  I  was  staggered.  "Entire 
separation  and  estrangement  for  five  years ! 
And  for  no  cause  ?  Arc  you  sure — oh,  forgive 
me  if  I  wound  you — but  are  you  sure  there  is 
no  cause  ?" 

"  I  declare  before  Heaven — none !  He  has 
never  blamed  me  in  word  or  deed." 

"Nor  given  you  reason  to  blame  him?"  said 
I,  with  a  sharp  glance,  still  strongly  inclining  to 
the  rights  of  my  own  sex. 

"  Me — blame  him  ? — blame  my  husband  ?" 
she  answered,  with  a  look  of  half-reproachful 
wonder.      "I  told  you  he  loved  me."    ' 

"But  love  changes,"  continued  I,  very  cau- 
tiously, for  it  was  hard  to  meet  her  large  inno- 
cent eyes,  like  a  gazelle's,  with  your  hand  on  its 
throat.  "Men  sometimes  come  to  love  other 
women  than  their  wives." 

She  flushed  indignantly  all  over  her  face. 
"You  wrong  him — you  wickedly  wrong  him. 
His  life  is,  and  always  has  been,  as  spotless  as 
my  own." 

Well,  thought  I,  I  give  it  up.  Either  she  is 
extraordinarily  deceived,  and  the  hypocrisy  of 
that  man  is  such  as  never  was  man's  before,  or 
the  problem  is  quite  beyond  my  solving.  Yet 
— one  more  attempt. 

"Juft  a  word.  Tell  me,  ilrs.  Merchiston, 
how  and  when  did  this  sad  estrangement  be- 
gin?" 

"  Six  months  after  our  marriage.  "VVe  mar- 
ried for  love  ;  we  were  both  alone  in  the  world ; 
we  were  all  in  all  to  one  another.  Gradually 
he  grew  melancholy — I  could  not  find  out  why ; 
he  said  it  would  pass  away  in  time.  Then  he 
had  a  fever — I  nursed  him  through  it.  When 
he  recovered — he — sent  me  away." 

The  brute  !  I  thought.  Just  like  a  man  ! 
"But  how  ?"  I  said  aloud.  "What  reason  did 
he  give  ?     What  excuse  could  he  offer  ?" 

"None.  He  only  wrote  to  mo,  when  away 
on  a  short  journey,  and  told  me  that  this  sepa- 
ration must  be — that  it  was  absolutely  inevita- 
ble— that  if  I  d'.^sired  it  he  would  leave  me  al- 
together— otherwise,  it  was  his  earnest  wish  we 
should  still  live  under  the  same  roof.  But  nev- 
er, never  meet." 

"And  you  never  have  met?" 

"Very  rarely — only  by  the  merest  cbance. 
Then  he  would  pass  me  by,  never  lifting  his 
eyes.  Once — it  was  in  the  first  few  weeks  of 
our  separation — I  met  him  on  the  stair-case. 
I  was  different  from  what  I  am  now,  Mrs.  Riv- 
ers ;  very  proud,  outraged,  indignant.  I  flung 
past  him,  but  he  caught  me  in  his  arms.  I 
would  not  speak;  I  stood  upright  in  his  clasp 


like  stone.  '  We  have  been  happy,  Barbara.' 
'But  never  can  be  again,'  I  cried,  passionately. 
'No,'  he  said;  'I  know  that — never  again.' 
He  held  me  close  a  moment  or  two,  then  broke 
from  me.     We  have  never  met  since." 

Such  was  her  story,  which  the  more  I  dived 
into  it,  became  the  more  incomprehensible.  No 
condemnatory  evidence  could  be  found  against 
the  husband  ;  in  all  things  Mrs.  Merchiston's 
comforts  were  studied,  her  wishes  gratified. 
She  said  it  often  seemed  as  if  an  invisible 
watch  were  kept  over  her,  to  provide  a;:ainst 
her  least  desire.  I  could  only  counsel  the  poor 
wife  to  patience,  hope,  and  trust  in  God. 

She  left  me  a  little  comforted.  I  asked  her 
would  she  not  stay  ?  was  she  not  afraid  of  meet- 
ing him  in  the  street? 

"Oh,  no,"  she  sighed,  "he  seems  to  know 
intuitively  my  goings  out  and  my  comings  in. 
I  never  see  him^never — not  even  by  chance. 
I  can  not  guess  how  it  hajipened  to-day.  How 
ill  he  looked  I"  she  added,  recurring  again  to 
wljat  seemed  uppermost  in  her  thoughts.  "  Mrs. 
Rivers,  will  you  entreat  yoin-  husband  to  watch 
over  him — to  take  care  of  him?  Promise  me 
you  will." 

I  ])romised  her,  poor  tender  thing !  and  in- 
wardly determined  to  watch  him  myself  with  a 
closer  eye  than  that  of  my  simi  le-he:irted  hus- 
band, to  whom,  of  course,  I  told  the  whole  mat- 
ter. 

He,  like  me,  was  now  fairly  bewildered. 
"  Peggy,"  he  said,  "hadn't  you  better  let  the 
thing  alone  ?" 

"Let  it  alone,"  I  cried,  "such  cruel  sorrow, 
such  a  flagrant  wrong — never!" 

"Well,"  kissing  me,  "perhaps  you  are  ri^ht, 
Peg,  my  dear.  Happy  folk  ought  to  help  the 
miserable." 

I  set  to  work.  Woman's  wit  is  keen,  and  I 
had  my  share  of  the  qualitj'. 

We  invited  Dr.  Merchiston  to  our  house  ;  he 
came,  at  first  rarely,  then  frequently.  Of  course 
Mrs.  Merchiston  was  always  included  in  these 
invitations,  and,  of  course,  we  received  duly  the 
formal  apology.  Gradually  this  ceased,  am]  he 
came  still.  He  must  have  known  that  she  came 
tuo,  on  other  days:  often  he  found  books  and 
work  of  hers  lying  about  my  table ;  yet  his  vis- 
its ceased  not.  He  seemed  to  like  to  come. 
He  and  my  husband  became  stanch  friends, 
but  as  for  me,  despite  his  courtesy,  my  heart 
remained  angry  and  sore  against  him. 

Yet  I  must  confess  that  we  found  him  all  liia 
wife  fondly  believed  ;  a  man  of  keen  intclhct, 
high  ])rincij  le,  generous  and  tender  heart.  If 
I  had  not  known  what  I  did  know,  I  should 
have  avouched,  unhesitatingly,  that  the  world 
did  not  contain  a  nobler  man  than  Dr.  Merchis- 
ton.     Excepting,  of  course,  my  James. 

For  his  manners,  they  were  simple,  natural, 
kind ;  not  in  any  way  eccentric,  or  indicative 
of  vice  or  folly.  Among  our  neighbors  his 
character  rose  to  the  highest  pitch  of  estima- 
tion;  and  when,  at  last,  the  fatal  trutli  was 
known  (alas!  what  household  misery  can  ever 


120 


THE  DOUBLE  HOUSE. 


long  be  liiil,  especially  in  a  country  place),  all 
sorts  of  excuses  and  apologies  were  made  for 
him. 

And  cruelly,  mournfully — as  it  always  falls 
on  the  weaker  side — fell  the  lash  of  the  world's 
tongue  upon  his  wife. 

But  I — and  one  or  two  more  who  knew  and 
loved  her — stood  boldly  by  Mrs.  Merchiston 
through  fair  report  and  foul.  And  I  believe, 
60  great  was  the  mingled  awe  and  respect  which 
the  Doctor  impressed  upon  all  his  acquaintance, 
that  no  portion  of  these  calumnies  against  her 
reached  her  husband. 

Three  months  slipped  by  without  change, 
save  that  Mrs.  Merchiston's  sad  lot  grew  sadder 
fitill.  Her  few  acquaintance  dropped  her ;  it 
was  so  "  extremely  inconvenient."  One  lady 
Tvas  on  thorns  wiienever  Mrs.  Merchiston  called, 
lest  Dr.  Merchiston  sliould  chance  to  call  like- 
wise; another  tried  every  conceivable  diploma- 
C7  to  bring  about  their  meeting — it  would  be 
"so  very  amusing."  Gradually  the  unfortu- 
nate wife  could  nor  walk  down  our  village  with- 
out being  pointed  at,  or  crossed  aside  from,  till 
she  rarely  went  out  at  all. 

Dr.  Mcrciiision,  too,  was  seldom  seen,  except 
by  his  immediate  friends,  none  of  whom  dared 
breathe  a  word  to  him  concerning  his  domestic 
affairs,  save  the  simple  'inquiries  of  courtesy 
after  Mrs.  Merchiston,  to  which  he  invariably 
answered  in  the  customary  form,  as  any  other 
husband  would  answer.  I  think,  in  flict  I  know, 
that  all  this  time  lie  believed  her  to  be  living  at 
peace ;  perfectly  iiappy  in  her  beautiful  house 
in  our  cheerful  village,  and  in  a  small  society 
of  her  own  choosing,  of  which  I  was  the  chief. 
He  once  hinted  as  much  to  me,  expressing  his 
great  pleasure  that  Mrs.  Merchiston  and  myself 
were  fast  friends. 

I  hardly  know  what  possessed  me  that  I  did 
not  then  and  there  burst  out  upon  him  with  a 
piece  of  my  mind  ;  any  "  woman  of  spirit" — as 
James  sometimes  called  me — would  have  done 
it.      What  was  he  but  a  man  ? 

Ay,  there  was  the  difficulty.  His  perfect 
manliness  disarmed  one;  that  quiet  dignity  of 
reserve,  which,  I  have  noticed,  while  women 
are  ready  enough  to  complain  of  their  hus- 
bands, keeps  nine  men  out  of  ten  from  ever 
Baying  a  word  against  their  wives.  Then,  too, 
the  silent  deprecation  of  his  sickly  mien,  and 
of  the  inetlable,  cureless  melancholy  which,  the 
moment  he  ceased  conversation,  arose  in  his 
dark  eyes.  What  could  a  tender-hearted  wo- 
man do?  Beginning  by  hating  and  despising, 
I  often  ended  in  pitying  him,  and  every  time  I 
fp,w  him  all  my  determinations  to  attack  him 
about  his  domestic  wickedness  vanished  in  air. 

Besides — as  James  astutely  observed — if  a 
wife  obstinately  persists  in  blindly  obeying  her 
husband,  never  asking  the  why  and  the  where- 
fore of  his  insane  and  incomprehensible  will, 
and  concealing  from  him  that  she  is  wasting 
away  in  slow  misery,  what  business  has  a  third 
party  to  accuse  or  even  acipiaint  him  of  the 
fact? 


Was  no  other  plan  to  be  tried  ?  Yes ;  acci- 
dentally one  was  forced  into  my  mind. 

On  a  winter's  afternoon,  when  I  sat  with  my 
baby  over  our  happy  Christmas  fire,  Mrs.  Mer- 
chiston came  rushing  in. 

"  Hide  me — any  where ;  let  nobody  find  me. 
ilrs.  Rivers,  they  hoot  at  me  down  the  street. 
They  say — oh,  I  dare  not  think  what  they  say, 
and  I  dare  not  tell  him.  Perhaps — oh,  horror! 
— perhaps  he  thinks  so  too." 

Long  shudders  possessed  her;  it  was  some 
time  before  she  gained  the  slightest  composure. 
It  was  not  difficult  for  me  to  guess  the  cause  of 
her  anguish. 

"Never  mind  wicked  tongues,  Mrs.  ^Merchis- 
ton,  they  will  cease  if  let  alone.  Only  live  in 
peace  and  patience.     Hope  in  God  still." 

"I  can't,"  she  said,  with  a  wild  look  that  I 
had  not  before  seen.  ''How  should  I  hope  in 
Him?  He  has  forsaken  me  ;  why  should  I  live 
any  longer?  Oh!  save  me,  save  mc  !  I.,et  me 
go  away  from  here,  from  my  husband.  I  must 
go,  their  cruel  tongues  will  kill  mc." 

"You  shall,"  I  cried,  with  a  sudden  idea, 
as  suddenly  converted  into  a  resolution  ,  "you 
shall,  and  I  will  help  you." 

Whereupon  I  explained  all  to  her;  somewhat 
hastily,  for  I  was  afraid  of  Mr.  Rivers  coming 
home  ;  he  who  had  just  a  man's  notion  of  mar- 
ital authority,  and  the  wickedness  of  conjugal 
rebellion.  But  this  was  a  case  in  which  I  set 
even  him  at  defiance — or  rather,  I  trusted  to  my 
own  iuHucnce  to  convince  him  that,  acting  from 
my  conscience  solely,  I  acted  right. 

Mark  me,  children,  I  would  have  a  woman 
submit  to  any  lawful  authority,  even  unjustly 
and  cruelly  exercised,  so  long  as  the  misery 
does  not  ruin  her  soul.  When  the  torment 
goads  her  thus  far — when,  like  Job's  wife,  the 
devil  tempts  her  to  "curse  God  and  die,"  then, 
I  hoM,  all  duty  ceases,  except  to  her  Maker 
and  herself,  the  creature  which  He  made ;  let 
her  save  her  own  soul  and  flee! 

My  counsel  to  Mrs.  Merchiston  was  this :  at 
once — openly  if  she  could,  secretly  if  tliat  was 
impossible — to  leave  her  husband,  absolutely 
and  entirely,  exacting  no  maintenance,  making 
neither  excuse  nor  accusation. 

It  necessarily  followed  that  she  must  earn  her 
own  bread ;  and  she  must  immediately  seek  a 
position  that  would  place  her  f.iir  fame  above 
suspicion,  both  now  and  at  any  future  time. 

This  is  how  I  planned  it. 

I  had  a  sister,  a  wcll-jointurcd  widow,  with 
a  large  family.  I  jiroposed  to  i)lace  my  poor 
friend  with  her  as  a  governess.  Mrs.  Merchis- 
ton eagerly  assented.  She  had  lieen  a  teacher, 
she  said,  in  her  youth,  so  that  the  duty  would 
be  easy,  and  she  could  fullill  it  well. 

"And  oh!"  she  cried,  while  the  tears  ran 
down  her  face,  "I  shall  be  in  a  household,  a 
li<iine  among  children.  Perhaps  the  little  things 
will  love  m  '." 

Poor  desolate  soul ! 

I  will  not  detail  the  many  evening  lectures 
that  were  required  to  bring  my  husband  to  my 


THE  DOUBLE  HOUSE. 


121 


own  way  of  thinking;.  For  one  thing  he  inex- 
orably hekl  our,  and  finally  I  agreed  with  him 
that  Dr.  Merchiston  should  be  openly  and  hon- 
orably informed  of  liis  wife's  intended  dc]jarture. 
She  wrote  to  him  herself  in  our  house.  James 
and  I  both  read  the  letter.     It  was  as  follows : 

"Dear  Hush  and, — Forgive  my  addressing  you 
against  your  implied  desire.  Forgive  my  asking  once 
more,  and  for  the  last  time,  what  have  I  done  to  you  ? 
Why  are  you  estranged  from  me?  I  can  no  longer  sus- 
tain the  life  I  lead.  I  desire  to  leave  you.  I  am  going 
to  be  a  governess,  as  I  was  before  we  were  married.  Al- 
ready all  my  plans  are  formed,  but  I  could  not  part  from 
you  without  this  forewarning  and  farewell. 

"  Your  wife,  Barb.-vea." 

This — the  last  and  most  carefully,  even  coldly 
worded,  of  the  many  letters  she  wrote  and  tore 
up — was  left,  to  avoid  remarks,  by  my  own  serv- 
ant at  Dr.  Mcrchiston's  door. 

On  the  evening  of  that  day  Mrs.  Merchiston 
came  to  my  house.  She  looked  wliite  and  shiv- 
ering, but  not  with  the  cold.  Her  poor  blue 
eyes,  so  warm  and  kind,  had  a  frosty  glitter  in 
them  tliat  was  strange  and  sad. 

"Ko  answer,"  she  kej)t  repeating;  "no  an- 
swer— none.     Now  I  must  go." 

I  replied  that  every  thing  was  ready ;  our  gig 
would  be  at  the  door  in  a  minute ;  it  was  a 
bri-ht  moonlight  night,  and  I  myself  would  ac- 
comi  any  her  to  my  sisters  house. 

"It  is  not  far — not  so  very  far,  Mrs.  Rivers? 
Not  so  far  but  that  I  can  always  hear  of  him,  or 
— if  he  should  be  ill  at  any  time — " 

"  You  can  go  home  at  once." 

"  Home  !"  she  echoed,  piteously.  Then,  as  if 
stung  into  one  desperate  effort,  the  last  struggle 
of  her  tender  and  feeble  nature,  she  sprang  into 
the  gig,  I  fcdlowing  her. 

I  was  scarcely  seated,  reins  in  hand,  for  I 
was  determined  that  no  other  than  myself  should 
have  thecreditof  eloping  with  Mrs.  Merchiston, 
than  I  felt  on  my  right  arm  a  grasp  like  a  vice. 

"  Mrs.  Rivers,  whom  have  you  there?  Is  it 
my  wife  ?" 

"Yes,  Dr.  Merchiston,"  I  cried,  not  in  the 
least  fri_.;htencd  by  tlic  look  and  tone  ;  "  j'cs,  it 
is  your  \\  ife.  I  am  taking  her  to  where  she  will 
live  in  peace,  and  not  be  killed  by  inches  any 
longer.      Stand  aside  ;  let  me  drive  on." 

"  In  one  moment.  Pardon  me  ;"  he  passed 
in  front  of  the  horse  to  the  other  side.  "  Bar- 
bara ?      Is  that  you,  Barbara  ?" 

No  wr>rds  could  describe  the  ineffable  tender- 
ness, the  longing  anguish  of  that  voice.  No 
wonder  tliat  it  made  her  grasp  my  arm,  and  cry 
wildly  on  me  to  stop. 

"  it  is  not  ten  minutes  since  I  received  your 
letter.  Barbara,  grant  me  one  word  in  the 
presence  of  this  lady,  by  whose  advice  you  are 
leaving  your  husband." 

"  By  whose  advice  did  you  forsake  your  wife. 
Dr.  Merchiston  ?"  I  began,  boldly  ;  but  by  the 
carriage-him])  1  caught  si.;lit  of  his  face,  and  it 
seemed  like  that  of  a  man  literally  dying — dying 
of  despair.  "Mrs.  Merchiston,  snjipose  we  re- 
enter my  house  for  a  while.  Doctor,  will  you 
lift  your  wife  down  ?     She  has  fainted." 


Soon  the  poor  lady  was  sitting  in  my  parlor, 
I  by  her  side.  Dr.  Merchiston  stood  opposite, 
watching  us  both.  He  was  neither  violent  nor 
reproachful,  but  perfectly  silent.  Nevertheless, 
I  felt  somewhat  uncomfortable,  and  glad  from 
my  heart  that  James  was  safe  ten  miles  off.  and 
that  I  alone  had  been  mi.xed  up  with  this  affair. 

"She  is  better  now,  Mrs.  Rivers.  I  may 
speak  ?" 

"  Speak,  sir." 

"I  wiil  pass  over  my  present  trying  position. 
Of  course,  I  perceive — in  fact,  I  was  already 
aware — that  Mrs.  Merchiston  has  acquaintec) 
you  with  our  sad,  inevitable  estrangement." 

"Why  inevitable  ?  When  there  has  been  no 
quarrel  on  either  side?  When,  cruel  as  you 
have  been  to  her,  she  has  never  breathed  a  word 
to  your  discredit?"  (He  groaned.)  "When, 
as  I  understand,  you  have  not  the  shadow  of 
blame  to  urge  against  her?" 

"Before  Heaven,  none.  Have  I  not  declared 
this,  and  will  I  not  declare  it  before  all  the 
world  ?      She  knows  I  will." 

"  Then  why,  my  dear  sir,  in  the  name  of  all 
that  is  good  and  honorable — nay,  even  in  the 
name  of  common  sense,  why  is  your  estrange- 
ment inevitable  ?" 

He  seemed  to  cower  and  shudder  as  before 
some  inexpressible  dread  ;  once  he  glanced 
wildly  round  the  room,  as  if  with  the  vague 
idea  of  escaping.  Finally,  he  forced  himself 
to  speak,  with  a  smile  that  was  most  painful  to 
witness. 

"Mrs.  Rivers,  even  though  a  lady  asks  me, 
I  can  not  answer  that  question." 

' '  Can  you  if  your  wife  herself  asks  it  ?  I  will 
leave  you  togeiher." 

As  I  rose  to  go.  Dr.  Merchiston  interposed. 
The  cold  sweat  stood  on  his  brow  ;  he  looked — 
yes,  I  thought  so  at  the  moment — like  a  pos- 
sessed man  struggling  wiih  his  inward  demon. 

"For  God's  sake,  no !  For  the  love  of  mercy, 
no  I  Stay  by  her ;  take  care  of  her.  I  will  speak 
in  your  presence;  I  will  not  detain  you  long.' 

"You  had  better  not.  See,"  for  the  ].oor 
wi  e  was  again  insensible.  Dr.  Merchiston 
ru  he  I  to  her  side;  he  chafed  her  hands;  he 
lell  on  his  knees  before  her ;  but  as  she  opened 
her  eyes  he  crept  away,  and  put  the  room's 
length  between  them. 

"  Now  may  I  speak  ?  You  wished  to  leave 
nie,  Barbara.     To  go  whither?'' 

I  told  him,  concealing  nothing;  he  seemed 
greatly  shocked. 

"Mrs.  Rivers,"  he  said  at  length,  "  such  a 
scheme  is  impossible.  I  will  never  consent  to 
it.  If  she  desires,  she  shall  leave  my  house,  for 
yours  or  any  other.  She  shall  have  any  lu.xuries 
she  jdeases ;  she  shall  be  as  free  from  nie  as  if 
I  were  dead  and  she  a  widow.  But  that  my 
wife  shciiild  (juit  the  shelter  of  my  roof  to  earn 
her  daily  bread — 1  never  will  allow  it." 

From  this  decision  there  was  no  appeal.  The 
wife  evidently  desired  none  ;  her  eyes  began  to 
sliine  with  joy,  and  even  I  took  hojie. 

"But,    Dr.    Merchiston,    can    there    be    no 


122 


THE  DOUBLE  HOUSE. 


change  ?    Y.>n  loved  one  another  once.    Love  is 
not  yet  dead  ;  love  never  wholly  dies.    Surely — " 
"  Madam,  silence !" 

Could  it  be  his  voice  that  spoke  ;  his  once 
calm,  low  voice  ?     I  was  now  really  terrified. 

He  rose  and  walked  about  the  room ;  we 
two  sat  trembling.  At  last  he  stopped  in  his 
old  position,  with  his  hand  on  the  mantle-piece. 

"Mrs.  Kivcrs,  my  extremely  ])ainfiil  posi- 
tion— you  will  acknowledge  it  is  such — must 
excuse  any  thin^  in  me  unbecoming,  uncourt- 
eous." 

I  assured  him  he  had  my  free  pardon  for  any 
excitement,  and  I  hoped  he  felt  calmer  now-. 

'Terfectly,  perfectly;  you  must  see  that,  do 
you  not  ?" 

"I  do,"  said  I,  with  a  sense  of  bitterness 
against  the  wliole  race  of  mankind,  who  can 
drive  poor  womankind  almost  out  of  their 
senses,  while  they  themselves  preserve  the  most 
sublime  composure. 

"I  will  now,  with  your  permission  and  in 
your  presence,  sjieak  to  my  wife.  Barbara" — 
in  a  (piiet  equal  tone,  as  if  addressing  an  ordi- 
nary person — "I  told  you  five  years  a^o  tiiat  it 
is  not  I  who  am  inexorable,  but  fate,  even  if  tlie 
life  we  th'.'u  began  to  lead  should  last  until  my 
death.  I  repeat  the  same  now.  Yet,  for  these 
five  years  yon  have  been  at  peace  and  safe. 
Safe,"  he  repeated,  with  a  slight  pause,  "  under 
my  roof,  where  I  can  shelter  and  ]irotect  you 
better  than  any  where  else." 

"Protect  her?"  And  then  I  told  him— how 
could  1  help  it? — of  the  slights  and  outrages  to 
which  tliL'ii-  manner  of  life  had  exposed  her. 
How  e\  ery  idle  tongue  in  the  neighborhood  had 
wagged  at  her  expense,  and  to  both  their  dis- 
honor. It  was  terrible  to  see  the  effect  jiro- 
duced  on  him. 

"  Hush!  tell  me  no  more,  or — Barbara,  for- 
give me  ;  forgive  me  that  I  ever  made  you  my 
wif^;.  There  is  but  one  atonement ;  shall  I 
make  you  mi/  iridow /" 

"Doctor  Merchiston,"  1  cried,  catching  his 
arm,  "  are  you  mad?" 

He  started,  sliuddered,  and  in  a  moment  had 
recovered  all  his  self-control. 

"  Mrs.  liivers,  this  is  a  state  of  things  most 
tcrribi ',  of  uliiuli  I  was  totally  ignorant.  How 
is  it  to  be  remedied  ? — Granting,  as  you  must 
grant,  the  one  unalterable  necessity?" 

I  tliouglit  a  minute,  and  thi'n  pro])osed,  to 
silence  the  tongue  of  all  A])e(lale,  that  the  bus-  [ 
band  and  wife  should  openly  walk  to  church 
together  every  Sunday,  and  kneel  together  in  ! 
the  lions !  of  God.     And  may  He  for-ive  me  if  \ 
in  tills  scheme  I  had  a  deeper  hope  than  I  be- 
trayed. 

"I  will  do  it,"  said  Dr.  Merchiston,  after  a 
pause.  '•  B.irbara,  do  you  consent?  Will  you 
come  horn  •  ?"' 

"I  will." 

"But  lo  tlic  old  life?  In  notliiii"  chanced 
— for  changed  it  can  not,  must  not  be  ?" 

"  Under  any  circumstances  I  will  come 
home." 


'  Thank  you  ;  God  bless  you.     It  is  better 


so. 


There  was  a  quiet  pause,  broken  only  by  one 
or  two  foint  sobs  from  her.  At  last  they  ceased. 
Dr.  ^Merchiston  took  his  hat  to  dej)art ;  as  he 
was  going,  his  wife  started  uji  and  caught  him 
by  the  hand. 

"Husband,  one  word,  and  I  can  bear  all 
things.     Did — did  you  ever  love  me  ?" 

"Love  you?     Oh,  my  little  Barbara!" 

"  IJo  you  love  me?" 

"Yes,"  in  a  whisper,  sharp  with  intolerable 
pain;   "yes." 

"Then  I  do  not  mind  any  thing.  Oh  no, 
thank  God !     I  do  not  mind." 

She  burst  into  hysterical  langhter,  and  thrcAv 
herself  into  my  arms.  It  was  only  my  arms 
she  could  come  to — her  husband  was  gone. 

She  went  home  as  she  had  jjromiscd,  and 
the  old  life  began  once  more.  AVithout  the 
slightest  chan;;e,  she  told  me — save  that  rcgu- 
larl}'  on  Sunday  mornings  he  knocked  at  the 
door  of  communication  between  the  double 
house,  kejit  always  locked  on  her  side,  by  his 
desire — that  she  found  him  waiting  in  the  hall, 
and  they  walked  arm  in  arm,  as  silently  and 
sadly  as  mourners  after  a  corjise,  to  the  tjiurch 
door.  In  the  same  way  returning,  he  imme- 
diately ])iirted  from  her,  and  went  his  way  to 
his  own  apartments. 

A})cdale  was  quite  satisfied,  and  circulated 
innumerable  exjdanations,  which  had  probably 
as  much  truth  in  them  as  the  former  accusa- 
tions. 

Dr.  Merchiston  came  as  usual  to  play  chess 
with  my  husband,  and  no  illusion  was  ever 
made  to  the  night  which  had  witnessed  so 
strange  a  scene  in  our  house. 

Mrs.  Merchiston  improved  in  health  and 
cheerfulness.  To  a  woman  the  simple  convic- 
tion of  being  loved  is  su))port  and  strength 
through  tlie  most  terrible  ordeal.  Once  sure  of 
that,  her  faith  is  infinite,  her  consolation  com- 
plete. After  his  "Yes,"  poor  little  Barbara 
revived  like  a  flower  in  the  sun. 

Not  so  her  husband.  Every  body  noticed 
that  Dr.  Merchiston  was  wasting  away  to  a 
shadow.  On  Sundays,  especially,  his  counte- 
nance, always  sallow  anil  worn,  seemed  to  me 
to  have  the  ghastly  look  of  one  whom  you  know 
to  be  inwardly  fighting  a  great  soul-battle. 
You  feel  at  once  the  warfare  will  be  won — but 
the  man  will  die. 

And  still,  as  ever,  of  all  the  imiicnetrable 
mysteries  that  life  can  weave,  that  man  and  his 
secret  were  the  darkest. 

At  least  to  me.  Whetlier  it  was  so  to  my 
husband,  whose  reserved  habits  and  wide  ex- 
perience of  human  nature  lielped  to  make  him 
what,  thank  Heaven,  he  always  was  —  much 
wiser  than  I  —  I  do  nut  know  ;  but  I  often 
caught  bis  grave  ]>enctrating  eye  intently  fixed 
cm  Dr.  Merchiston.  So  intu'h  so,  that  more 
than  once  the  Doctor  recoiled  from  it  uneasily. 
But  Mr.  Bivers  redoubled  his  kindness ;  in 
truth,  I  never  knew  James,  who  was  very  un- 


THE  DOUBLE  HOUSE. 


123 


demonstrative,  and  usually  engrossed  between 
interest  in  his  patients  and  his  domestic  affec- 
tions, attach  himself  so  strongly  to  any  male 
friend  out  of  his  own  home,  as  he  did  to  Dr. 
Merchiston. 

He  seized  every  opportunity  to  allure  our 
neighbor  from  his  morbid,  solitary  in-door  life 
to  a  more  wholesome  existence.  They  rode 
out  together  on  the  medical  rounds — James 
trying  to  interest  him  in  the  many,  many  op- 
portunities of  philanthropy  with  which  a  coun- 
try surgeon's  life  abounds.  Sometimes — one 
day  I  especially  remember  ^ — Dr.  Merchiston 
said  he  thou-ht  Mr.  Kivcrs  had  familiarized 
him  witli  every  possible  aspect  of  human  jiain. 

"  Not  all — I  have  yet  to  show  you — indeed, 
I  thought  of  doin;^  so  this  morning — the  black- 
est aspect  human  suffering  can  show.  And 
yet,  like  all  suffering,  a  merciful  God  has  not 
left  it  without  means  of  alleviation." 

"Wiiat  do  you  mean?  I  thought  we  were 
going  to  some  hosiiital.     For  what  disease  ?" 

"No  physical  disease.  Yet  one  which  I 
believe,  like  all  other  diseases,  is  capable  of 
prevention  and  cure — mental  insanity." 

Dr.  Merchiston  grcAv  as  white  as  this  my 
pa])er.  He  said,  in  a  confused  manner,  which 
vainly  tried  to  simulate  indifference — "You  are 
right.      But  it  is  a  painful  subject^insanity." 

I  did  not  wonder  that  my  husband  tried  to 
change  the  conversation,  and  his  morning  plan 
likewise.  It  was  evident  that  in  some  way  the 
topic  strongly  affected  our  friend.  Probably  he 
had  had  a  relative  thus  afflicted. 

It  must  be  remembered  that,  forty  years  ago, 
the  subject  of  insanity  was  viewed  in  a  very 
different  light  from  what  it  is  at  present.  In- 
stead of  a  mere  disease,  a  mental  instead  of  a 
bodily  ailment — yet  no  less  susceptible  of  reme- 
dy— it  was  looked  upon  as  a  visitation,  a  curse, 
almost  a  crime.  Any  family  who  owned  a 
member  thus  suffering,  hid  the  secret  as  if  it 
had  been  absolute  guilt.  "Mad-house,"  "mad 
doctor,"  were  words  which  people  shuddered  at, 
or  dared  not  utter.  And  no  wonder!  for  in 
many  instances  they  revealed  abysses  of  igno- 
rance, cruelty,  and  wickedness,  horrible  to  con- 
template. Since  then  more  than  one  modern 
Howard  has  gone  among  those  worse  than 
prisons,  cleared  away  incalculable  evils,  and 
made  even  such  dark  places  of  the  earth  to  see 
a  hopeful  dawn. 

Throughout  his  professional  career,  one  of 
my  husband's  favorite  "crotchets,"  as  I  called 
them,  had  been  the  investigation  of  insanity. 

Commencing  with  the  simple  doctrine,  start- 
ling bat  true,  that  every  man  and  woman  is 
mad  on  some  one  point — that  is,  has  a  certain 
weak  corner  of  the  mind  or  brain,  which  re- 
quires carefully  watching  like  any  other  weak 
portion  of  the  body,  lest  it  should  become  the 
seat  of  rampant  disease,  he  went  on  with  a 
theory  of  possible  cure— one  that  would  take  a 
wiser  head  than  mine  to  explain,  but  which  ef- 
fectually removed  the  intolerable  horror,  misery, 
and  hopelessness  of  that  great  cloud  overhang- 


ing the  civilized  and  intellectual  portion  of  the 
world — mental  insanity.  I  do  not  mean  the 
raving  madness  which  is  generally  superin- 
duced by  violent  passions,  and  which  by-gone 
ages  used  to  regard  as  a  sort  of  dcmcniacal 
possession— \\  hich  it  may  be,  for  aught  I  know 
• — but  that  general  state  of  unsoundness,  un- 
healthiness  of  brain,  which  corresponds  to  un- 
healthiness  of  body,  and  like  it,  often  requires 
less  a  physician  than  a  sanitary  ccmmissioner. 

This  may  seem  an  unnecessary  didactic  inter- 
polation, but  I  owe  it  to  the  natural  course  of 
my  story,  and  as  a  tribute  to  my  dear  husband. 
Besides,  it  formed  the  sulject  of  a  conversation 
which,  the  question  bting  voluntarily  revived  by 
Dr.  Merchiston,  he  and  James  held  toj^ether  dur- 
ing the  whole  afternoon. 

It  was  good  and  pleasant  to  hear  these  two 
men  talk.  I  listened,  jleascd  as  a  woman  who 
is  contented  to  appreciate  and  enjoy  that  to 
winch  herself  can  never  attain.  And  once 
more,  for  the  thousandth  time,  I  noted  with  ad- 
miration the  wonderfully  strong  and  lucid  in- 
tellect with  which  Dr.  Merchiston  could  grasp 
any  subject,  handle  it,  view  it  on  all  j  oints,  and 
make  his  auditors  see  it  too.  Kvcn  on  this 
matter,  which  still  seemed  to  touch  his  symjia- 
thies  deeply,  es]  ecially  %\l;en  he  alluded  to  the 
world's  horror  and  cruel  treatment  of  insane 
persons— insane,  perhajis,  only(<n  s(  me)  articu- 
lar point,  while  the  rest  of  the  brain  A\as  clear 
and  sound — even  there  his  powers  of  reasoning 
and  argument  never  failed. 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Kivcrs,  smiling,  as  they 
shook  hands  at  the  doer,  "I  am  }.lad  to  have 
found  some  one  who  can  understi.nd  my  hobby. 
You  are  certainly  one  of  the  clearest-headed 
men  I  ever  knew." 

"You  truly  think  so  ?  I  thank  you,  Eivcrs," 
said  the  Doctor,  earnestly,  as  he  disajjpearcd 
into  the  dark. 

I  remember  this  nij.ht's  conversation  vividly, 
because,  in  Heaven's  inscrutable  mercy — ay,  I 
!ct7/ write  "mercy'' — it  was  the  last  time  Dr. 
Merchiston  entered  our  house. 

The  next  morning  he  bowed  to  me  at  the 
window,  riding  past  on  his  gayJy  curveting 
horse,  looking  better  and  more  cheerful  than  he 
had  done  for  a  long  time. 

That  evening  my  husband  was  summoned  to 
the  Double  House.  Its  master  had  been  thrown 
from  his  horse,  liis  leg  and  his  ri}.ht  arm  frac- 
tured. If  all  went  well,  James  told  me,  and  I 
had  rarely  seen  him  so  moved — the  patient 
would  be  confined  to  his  bed,  bound  there  hand 
and  foot,  helpless  as  a  child,  for  three  or  four 
months.     Boor  Dr.  Merchiston  ! 

"Is  his  wife  with  him  ?"  was  the  first  question 
I  asked. 

"Ye;?,  thank  God,  yes!"  cried  James,  fairly 
burstiug  into  tears.  I  was  so  shocked,  so 
amazed  by  his  emotion,  that  I  never  inquired 
or  learned  to  this  day  how  it  came  about,  or 
M  hat  strange  scene  my  husband  had  tliat  evening 
witnessed  in  the  Double  House. 

There  was  a  long  crisis,  in  which  the  balance 


124 


THE  DOUBLE  HOUSE. 


•wavered   between    life   and    death.      Life    tri- 
umphed. 

I  went  almost  every  day  ;  but  it  was  lonp  be- 
fore I  saw  Mrs.  Mcrchiston :  when  I  did.  it  was 
the  strangest  sight !  Her  looks  were  full  of  the 
deepest  peace,  the  most  seraphic  joy.  And  yet 
she  had  been  for  weeks  a  nurse  in  that  sick 
room.  A  close,  tender,  indefatigable  nurse, 
sach  as  none  but  a  wife  can  be ;  as  fondly 
watchful — ay,  and  as  gratefully  and  adoringly 
watched,  my  husband  told  me,  by  the  sick 
man's  dim  eyes,  as  if  she  had  been  a  wife  bound 
for  years  in  near,  continual  household  bonds, 
instead  of  having  lived  totally  estranged  from 
him  since  the  first  six  montiis  of  union. 

But  no  one  ever  spoke  or  tliought  of  that  now. 

Dr.  Mcrchiston  slowly  improved ;  though  he 
was  still  totally  helpless,  and  his  weakness  re- 
mained tliat  of  a  very  infant. 

In  this  state  he  was  when  I  was  first  admitted 
to  his  :-ick  chamber. 

Mrs.  Mcrchiston  sat  at  the  window,  sewing. 
The  room  was  bright  and  pleasant;  she  Iiad 
brought  into  it  all  those  cheerfulnesses  which 
can  alleviate  the  long-to-be-endured  suffering 
from  wliich  all  danger  is  past.  When  I  tliought 
of  the  former  aspect  and  atmosi)]iere  of  the 
house,  it  did  not  seem  in  the  least  sad  now ;  for 
Barbara's  eyes  had  a  permanent,  mild,  satis- 
fied light;  and  her  liusband's,  which  were  ever 
dwelling  on  her  face  and  form,  were  full  of  the 
calmest,  most  entire  happiness. 

I  sat  with  them  a  guod  while,  and  did  not 
marvel  at  his  saying  ere  I  left — "  that  he  thor- 
oughly enjoyed  being  ill." 

With  what  a  solemn,  sublime  evenness  is  life 
motcd  out!  Barbara  has  told  me  since  that 
those  five  moniiis  fulluwing  her  husband's  acci- 
dtMit  were  the  mo<t  truly  happy  hsr  life  had  ever 
known. 

"Look  at  him,"  she  whispered  to  me  one 
evening  when  he  lay  by  the  window,  half  dozing, 
lia\  iug  been  for  tiie  first  time  allowed  a  fiiint  at- 
tem])t  at  locomotion,  though  he  was  still  obliged 
to  '>e  waited  upon  hand  and  foot — "  Mrs.  Rivers, 
did  you  evvir  see  so  beautiful  a  smile  ?  Yet  it  is 
notliing  compared  to  that  he  wore  when  he  was 
very,  very  ill,  when  I  first  began  to  nurse  and 
tend  him;  and  he  did  nothing  but  watch  me 
about  the  room,  and  call  me  his  Barbara.  I  am 
here,  Evan  I — did  you  want  me?" 

She  was  at  his  side  in  a  moment,  smoothing 
his  pillow,  leaning  over  and  caressing  him.  I 
tliink  he  was  not  aware  of  there  being  any  one 
in  the  room  but  their  two  selves,  for  he  fondled 
lier  curls  and  her  soft  cheeks. 

"My  Barbara,  we  have  had  a  little  ray  of 
comfort  in  our  sad  life.  How  hap])/  we  have 
been  in  this  sick  room  1" 

"  We  Itave,  hern,  Evan  ?"' 

"Ay;  but  nothing  lasts  in  this  world — no- 
thing!" 

"Husband,  that  is  like  one  of  your  morbid 
sayings  when  we  were  first  married.  But  I 
will  not  have  it  now — I  will  not,  indeed."  And 
she  closed  his  mouth  with  a  pretty  petulance.  | 


He  lified  his  liand  to  remove  hers,  then  sunk 
back. 

"I  am  growing  strong  again;  I  can  use  my 
riglit  arm.  Oh,  Heaven!  my  right  arm!  lam 
not  helpless  any  longer." 

"No,  thank  God!  But  you  speak  as  if  you 
were  shocked  and  tcmfied." 

"  I  am — I  am.  With  strength  comes — Oh, 
my  Barbara !" 

His  wife,  alarmed  at  the  anguish  of  his  tone, 
called  out  my  name.  Dr.  Mcrchiston  caught 
at  it.  "  Is  Mrs.  Kivers  there  ?  Bid  her  come  in; 
bid  any  body  come  in.     Ah!  yes,  that  is  well." 

After  a  pause,  wliich  seemed  more  of  mental 
than  i)hysical  exhaustion,  he  became  himself 
again  for  the  rest  of  the  evening. 

The  next  day  he  sent  for  me,  and  in  Mrs. 
Merchiston's  absence,  talked  with  me  a  long 
while  about  her.  He  feared  her  health  would 
give  way ;  he  wished  her  to  be  more  with  me ; 
he  ho])ed  I  would  impress  upon  her  that  it  made 
him  miserable  to  see  her  spending  all  her  days 
and  niglits  in  bis  sick  room. 

'•  What !  in  the  only  place  in  the  world  where 
she  has  real  hap])iness?" 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  Is  she  never  happy  but 
with  me  ?  Then  Heaven  forgive  me !  Heaven 
have  pity  on  me !"  he  groaned. 

"  Dr.  JMerchiston  !  you  surely  do  not  intend 
to  send  your  wife  from  you  again — your  forgiv- 
ing, loving  wife?" 

Before  he  could  answer  she  came  in.  I  went 
away  thoroughly  angry  an(i  miserable.  That 
evening  I  indul.;cd  James  with  such  a  long  ha- 
rangue on  the  hcartlessness  of  liis  sex,  that,  as 
I  said,  he  must  have  been  less  a  man  than  an 
angel  to  have  borne  it.  When  I  told  him  the 
cause,  he  ceased  all  general  arguments,  sat  a  long 
time  thoughtful,  burning  his  Hessians  against 
the  bars  of  the  grate,  finally  sent  me  to  bed  and 
did  not  himself  follow  until  midnight. 

Dr.  Merchiston's  cure  progressed ;  in  the 
same  ratio  his  wife's  cheerfulness  declined.  He 
grew  day  by  day  more  melancholy,  irritable,  and 
cold.  By  the  time  he  was  released  from  his 
helpless  condition,  the  icy  barrier  between  them 
had  risen  up  again.  She  made  no  complaint, 
but  the  facts  were  evident. 

My  husband  and  I  by  his  express  desire  spent 
almost  every  evening  at  the  Double  House. 
Very  ))ainful  and  tircary  evenings  they  were. 
Convalescence  seemed  to  the  poor  jiatient  no 
happiness — only  a  terror,  misery,  and  jiain. 

One  night,  just  as  we  were  leaving,  making 
an  attcnijit  at  cheerfulness — for  -it  was  the  first 
time  he  had  ])crformed  the  feat  of  walking,  and 
his  wife  had  heljjcd  iiini  across  the  n)om  with 
triumphant  joy — he  said,  breaking  from  a  long 
reverie,  "  .stay — a  few  minutes  more  ;  Kivers 
— Mrs.  Rivers — I  want  to  speak  wiih  you  both." 
We  sat  down.  He  fell  back  in  his  chair,  and 
covered  his  eyes.  At  length  Mrs.  Mcrchiston 
gently  took  the  hands  away. 

"Evan,  you  don't  feel  so  strong  as  usual  to- 
night?" 

"I  do  ;    alas,  alas,  I  do,"   he  muttered. — 


THE  DOUBLE  HOUSE. 


125 


"Would  I  were  weak,  and  lay  on  that  bed 
again,  as  powerless  as  a  child.  No,  Barbara ; 
look,  I  am  strong — well."  He  stood  up,  stretch- 
ing his  gaunt  ri;j,ht  arm,  and  clenching  the 
hand;  then  let  it  drop,  affrighted.  "My  little 
Barbara,  I  must  send  tliec  away." 

"  Send  mc  away?" 

"  Send  her  away?" 

"Peggy,"  cried  my  husband,  in  stern  reproof, 
"be  silent:" 

I'he  poor  wife  broke  out  into  bitter  sobs. 
"Oh,  Eviin,  what  have  I  done  to  you?  Dear 
Evan,  let  me  stay — only  till  you  are  well,  quiie 
well." 

For,  despite  what  he  said  about  his  strength, 
his  countenance,  as  he  lay  back,  was  almost 
that  of  a  corpse.  Barbara's  clinging  arms 
seemed  to  him  worse  than  the  gripe  of  a  mur- 
derer. 

"Take  her  away,  Mrs.  Rivers ;  take  my  poor 
wife  away.  You  know  how  she  has  nursed  me ; 
you  know  whether  I  love  her  or  not." 

"Love  her!"  I  cried  bitterly;  but  James's 
hand  was  upon  my  shoulder.  His  eye,  which 
with  its  gentle  firmness  could,  they  said  at  the 
Hospital,  control  the  most  refractory  and  soothe 
the  most  wretched  patient,  was  fixed  upon  Dr. 
Merchiston.  I  saw  the  sick  man  yield ;  the 
bright  hectic  flush  came  and  went  in  his  cheek. 

"Rivers,  my  good  friend,  what  do  you  wish 
me  to  do  ?" 

"A  very  simple  thing.  Tell  me — not  these 
poor,  frightened  women — but  me,  your  real  rea- 
son for  acting  thus." 

"Lnpossible." 

"Not  quite.  It  may  be  I  partly  guess  it  al- 
ready." 

Dr.  Merchiston  started  up  with  the  look  of  a 
hunted  wild  beast  in  its  last  desjiair,  but  my 
husband  laid  his  hand  on  his,  in  a  kind  but  res- 
olute way. 

"  Indeed,  indeed,  you  are  safe  in  telling  me. 
Will  yoti  do  it  ?" 

The  patient  hesitated,  held  up  his  thin  hand 
to  the  light  with  a  wan  smile,  then  said,  "It 
can  not  matter  for  long  ;  I  will." 

James  immediately  sent  us  both  out  of  the 
room. 

Mrs.  Merchiston  was  a  ver_v  weak  woman, 
gentle  and  frail.  She  wept  until  her  strength 
was  gone ;  then  I  jiut  her  to  bed  in  her  maid's 
charge,  and  waited  until  Mr.  Rivers  ended  his 
conference  with  her  husband. 

It  was  two  hours  before  James  came  out. 
At  sight  of  him  my  torrent  of  curiosity  was  dried 
up ;  he  looked  as  I  had  sometimes  seen  him 
coming  home  from  a  death-bed.  To  my  few 
questions  he  answered  not  a  word. 

"But  at  least,"  said  I,  half  crying,  "at  least 
you  might  tell  me  what  I  am  to  do  with  poor 
Mrs.  Merciiiston." 

"Yes,  yes."  He  thought  a  minute.  "She 
must  go  home  with  us  ;  the  sooner  the  better." 

"You  agree,  then,"  I  burst  out,  breathless; 
"yon  agre?  to  this  separation?" 

"Entirely." 


"You  join  with  her  wicked  husband  in  his 
ingratitude — his  brutality — " 

"Peggy !"  James  caught  me  by  the  shoul- 
ders, with  the  sternest  frown  that  ever  fell  on 
mc  in  all  our  peaceful  married  life;  "Peggy, 
may  Heaven  forgive  you!  You  do  not  know 
what  you  are  saying." 

I  was  completely  awed. 

"  Dr.  Merchiston  has  told  you  the  secret,  and 
you  are  determined  to  keep  it  ?" 

"  Implicitly,  while  his  poor  life  lasts." 

My  husband  was  a  man  of  inviolable  honor. 
He  never  would  tell  a  patient's  secrets,  or  a 
friend's,  even  to  me,  his  wife ;  nor  was  I  the 
womiin  to  desire  it.     I  urged  no  more. 

During  the  ten  days  that  Mrs.  Merchiston  re- 
mained in  my  house,  jart  of  the  time  she  was  in 
a  sort  of  low  fever,  which  was  the  happiest  thing 
for  her,  poor  soul !  I  made  not  a  single  inquiry 
after  her  husband  ;  I  knew  that  Mr.  Rivers  was 
with  him  at  all  hours,  as  doctor,  nurse,  and 
friend. 

One  day,  when  Mrs.  Merchiston  was  sitting  in 
the  ])arlor  with  mc,  he  looked  in  ar  the  door.  Slie 
ditl  not  see  him.      He  quietly  beckoned  me  out. 

"Well,  James?" 

"  Speak  lower,  Peggy,  lower ;  don't  let  her 
hear." 

And  then  I  saw  how  very  much  agitated  he 
was ;  yet  even  that  did  not  quite  remove  the 
bitterness  with  which  I  could  not  help  mention- 
ing the  name  of  Dr.  Merchiston. 

"Peggy,  Dr.  Merchiston  is  dying." 

I  liad  not  expected  this ;  it  was  a  great  shock. 

"I  feared  it  would  be  so,"  continued  James; 
"I  have  seen  him  sinking  this  long  time.  Now 
the  mind  is  at  peace,  but  the  worn-out  body — " 

"His  wife — his  poor  wife,"  was  all  I  could 
utter. 

"Yes,  that  is  what  I  came  to  say.  She 
must  go  to  him  ;  he  wishes  it  much.  Do  you 
think  she  will  ?" 

I  smiled,  sadly.  "Ah  !  James,  she  is  a  wo- 
man." 

"And  you  women  can  forgive  to  all  eternity. 
Heaven  bless  you  for  it !  Besides,  she  will  know 
the  whole  truth  soon." 

I  asked  not  what  this  "truth"  was.  What 
did  it  matter  ?  he  was  dying. 

"But  are  you  sure,  James,  there  is  no  hope 
of  his  recovery?" 

"None,  I  believe,  and  am  almost  glad  to  be- 
lieve it.  There  is  no  man  I  ever  knew  whom 
I  so  deeply  pity,  and  shall  so  thankfully  see 
gone  to  his  last  rest,  as  Dr.  Merchiston." 

These  were  strong  words,  enough  to  calm 
down  every  wrong  feeling,  and  made  me  fit  to 
lead  the  wife  to  her  husband's  sick — nay,  death 
chamber. 

How  we  brought  her  thitlicr  I  forget.  I  only 
remember  the  moment  when  we  stood  within 
the  door. 

Dr.  Merchiston  lay  on  his  bed,  as  for  five 
long  months  he  had  jiatiently  and  cheerfully 
lain.  He  had  something  of  that  old  quiet  look 
now,  but  with  a  change  —  the   strange,  awful 


12C 


THE  DOUBLE  HOUSE. 


chanj:^e  which,  however  fond  friends  may  de- 
ceive themselves,  is  always  clearly  visible  to  a 
colder  gaze.  You  say  at  once,  ''That  man  will 
die." 

"When  Barbara  came  into  the  room  he  stretch- 
ed out  his  arms  with  the  brightest,  happiest 
smile.  She  clung  to  him  closely  and  long. 
Thera  was  no  for^jiveness  asked  or  bestowed  ; 
it  was  not  needed. 

"I  am  so  content,  my  Barbara,  content  at 
last!"  and  he  laid  his  head  on  her  shoulder. 

"  Evan,  you  will  not  j^art  from  me  again  ?" 

"  No  ;  I  need  not  now.  They  will  tell  you 
why  it  was.  You  l)elievc — you  will  always  be- 
lieve how  I  loved  vou  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Stoop.  Let  me  hold  her  dose  as  I  used  to 
do — my  wife,  my  little  Barbara.     Stoo;)  down." 

She  obeyed.  He  put  his  arms  round  her, 
and  kissed  her  with  many  kisses,  such  as  he 
had  not  given  her  since  she  was  a  six  months' 
bride ;  their  memory  remained  sweet  on  her 
lij.s  till  she  was  old  and  gray. 

Dr.  ^lerchiston  died  at  the  next  sunrise,  died 
jjcacefully  in  Barbara's  arms. 

^  :)(  ^  ^  ^  ik 

Tlirec  days  after  my  husband  and  I  stood  by 
lh3  coffin,  where,  for  the  last  few  minutes  on 
earth,  tlie  features,  which  had  been  so  familiar 
to  us  for  the  last  two  years,  were  exposed  to 
our  view.  James  said — toucliing  the  i'oreliead, 
v.liirh  was  ]ilacid  as  a  dead  baby's,  witii  all  the 
wrinkles  gone — 

'■Thank  the  Lord!" 

"Why?" 

"For  this  blessed  death,  in  which  alone  his 
sufferings  could  end.  He  was  a  monomaniac, 
and  he  knew  it." 

Before  speaking  again  my  husband,  rever- 
ently and  tenderly,  closed  the  coffin,  and  led 
me  down  stairs. 

The  funeral  over,  and  we  two  sitting  quietly 
and  solemnly  by  our  own  fireside,  James  told 
me  the  whole. 


"He  was,  as  I  said,  a  monomaniac.  JIad 
on  one  point  only,  the  rest  of  his  mind  being 
clear  and  sound." 

"And  that  ])oint  was — " 

"The  desire  to  murder  his  wife.  He  told 
mc,"  pursued  James,  when  my  horror  had  a 
little  subsided,  "that  it  came  upon  him  first  in 
tlie  very  honeymoon,  beginning  with  the  sort 
of  feeling  that  I  have  heard  several  jicople  say 
that  they  had  at  the  climax  of  happiness — the 
wish  there  and  then  to  die — together.  After- 
ward, day  and  night,  whenever  they  were  alone, 
the  temptation  used  to  haunt  him.  A  physi- 
cian himself,  he  knew  that  it  was  a  monomania ; 
but  he  also  knew  that,  if  he  confessed  it,  he, 
sane  on  all  other  points,  would  be  treated  as  a 
madman,  and  that  his  wife,  the  only  creature 
he  loved,  would  look  on  him  with  horror  for- 
ever. Tlierc  was  but  one  course  to  save  him- 
self and  her ;  he  took  it,  and  never  swerved 
from  it." 

'•But  in  his  illness?" 

"Then,  being  perfectly  helpless,  he  knew  he 
could  not  harm  her,  and  in  great  bodily  weak- 
ness most  monomanias  usually  subside.  His 
left  liim  entirely.  When  he  grew  stronger  it 
returned.  You  know  the  rest.  His  life  was  one 
long  torture.     Peace  be  with  him  now!" 

"Amen!"  I  said,  and  went  to  comfort  the 
widow. 

The  terrible  fact,  which  Dr.  Merchiston  had 
desired  should  be  told  her  after  his  death,  did 
not  seem  to  affect  Barbara  so  nuich  as  we  fear- 
ed. Love  to  her,  as  to  many  other  wonu'ii. 
was  the  beginning  and  end  of  all  things — sulli- 
cient  for  life,  and  even  in  death  wholly  undy- 
ing. 

"He  loved  mc — he  always  loved  me,"  she 
kept  saying,  and  her  days  of  mourning  became 
the  dawn  of  a  perennial  joy. 

She  lived  to  be  nearly  as  old  as  I  am  now, 
remaining  one  of  those  widows  who  are  "wid- 
ows indeed,"  forever  faithful  to  one  love  a«d 
one  memory. 


TRB  END. 


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